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“The Trial for Murder,” 
By Charles Dickens . 
“The Necklace,” 
By Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant 20 
* Peter Schlemihl,” 
By Adelbert von Chamisso 
“The Minister’s Black Veil,” 
By Nathaniel Hawthorne... ... » « - 95 
“The Siege of Berlin,” 
By Alphonse Daudet . . . ». « - ~ HT 
LO “The Pit and the Pendulum,” 
Bearoy Ropar Allan-Poe es oe me oe a 
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THE TRIAL FOR MURDER 


BY 


CHARLES DICKENS 


I HAVE always noticed a prevalent want of 
courage, even among persons of superior intelli- 
gence and culture, as to imparting their own 
psychological experiences when those have 
been of a strange sort. Almost all men are 
afraid that what they could relate in such wise 
would find no parallel or response in a listener’s 
internal life, and might be suspected or laughed 
at. A truthful traveller, who should have seen 
some extraordinary creature in the likeness of a 
sea-serpent, would have no fear of mentioning 
it; but the same traveller, having had some 
singular presentiment, impulse, vagary of 
thought, vision (so-called), dream or other 
remarkable mental impression, would hesitate 
considerably before he would own to it. To 
this reticence I attribute much of the obscurity 
in which such subjects are involved. We do 
not habitually communicate our experiences of 
these subjective things as we do our experiences 
of objective creation. The consequence is, that 
the general stock of experience in this regard 
appears exceptional, and really is so, in respect 
of being miserably imperfect. 


I 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


In what I am going to relate I have no inten- 
tion of setting up, opposing, or supporting any 
theory whatever. I know the history of the 
bookseller of Berlin, I have studied the case 
of the wife of a late astronomer royal as related 
by Sir David Brewster, and I have followed the 
minutest details of a much more remarkable 
case of spectral illusion occurring within my 
private circle of friends. It may be necessary 
to state as to this last, that the sufferer (a lady) 
was in no degree, however distant, related to 
me. A mistaken assumption on that head 
might suggest an explanation of a part of my 
own case—but only a part—which would be 
wholly without foundation. It cannot be 
referred to my inheritance of any developed 
peculiarity, nor had I ever before any at all 
similar experience, nor have I ever had any at 
all similar experience since. 

It does not signify how many years ago, or 
how few, a certain murder was committed in 
England, which attracted great attention. We 
hear more than enough of murderers as they 
rise in succession to their atrocious eminence, 
and I would bury the memory of this particular 
brute, if I could, as his body was buried, in 
Newgate Jail. I purposely abstain from giving 
any direct clew to the criminal’s individuality. 

When the murder was first discovered, no 
suspicion fell—or I ought rather to say, for I 
cannot be too precise in my facts, it was nowhere 
publicly hinted that any suspicion fell—on the 


2 


Trial for Murder 


man who was afterward brought to trial. As 
no reference was at that time made to him in 
the newspapers, it is obviously impossible that 
any description of him can at that time have 
been given in the newspapers. It is essential 
that this fact be remembered. 

Unfolding at breakfast my morning paper, 
containing the account of that first discovery, I 
found it to be deeply interesting, and I read it 
with close attention. I read it twice, if not 
three times. The discovery had been made in 
a bedroom, and, when I laid down the paper, . 
I was aware of a flash—rush—flow—I do not 
know what to call it—no word I can find is 
satisfactorily descriptive—in which I seemed 
to see that bedroom passing through my room, 
like a picture impossibly painted on a running 
river. Though almost instantaneous in its 
passing, it was perfectly clear, so clear that I 
distinctly, and with a sense of relief, observed 
the absence of the dead body from the bed. 

It was in no romantic place that I had this 
curious sensation, but in chambers in Piccadilly, 
very near to the corner of St. James’s Street. 
It was entirely new to me. I was in my easy- 
chair at the moment, and the sensation was 
accompanied with a peculiar shiver which 
started the chair from its position. (But it 
is to be noted that the chair ran easily on 
castors.) I went to one of the windows (there 
are two in the room, and the room is on the 
second floor) to refresh my eyes with the moving 


3 


Masterpieces of Fiction © 


objects down in Piccadilly. It was a bright 
autumn morning, and the street was sparkling 
and cheerful. The wind was high. As I 
looked out, it brought down from the Park a 
quantity of fallen leaves, which a gust took, and 
whirled into a spiral pillar. As the pillar fell 
and the leaves dispersed I saw two men on the 
opposite side of the way, going from west to 
east. They were one behind the other. The 
foremost man often looked back over his shoulder. 
The second man followed him, at a distance of 
some thirty paces, with his right hand menac- 
ingly raised. First, the singularity and steadi- 
ness of this threatening gesture in so public a 
thoroughfare attracted my attention; and next, 
_ the more remarkable circumstance that nobody 
heeded it. Both men threaded their way 
among the other passengers with a smoothness 
hardly consistent even with the action of 
walking on a pavement; and no single creature, 
that I could see, gave them place, touched them, 
or looked after them. In passing before my 
windows, they both stared up at me. I saw * 
their two faces very distinctly, and I knew that 
I could recognize them anywhere. Not that 
I had consciously noticed anything very re- 
markable in either face, except that the man 
who went first had an unusually lowering 
appearance, and that the face of the man who 
followed him was of the colour of impure wax. 

I am a bachelor, and my valet and his wife 
constitute my whole establishment. My occupa- 


4 


Trial for Murder 


tion is in a certain branch bank, and I wish that 
my duties as head of a department were as light 
as they are popularly supposed to be. They 
kept me in town that autumn, when I stood in 
need of change. I was not ill, but I was not well. 
My reader is to make the most that can be 
reasonably made of my feeling jaded, having a 
depressing sense upon me of a monotonous life, 
and being ‘‘slightly dyspeptic.”” I am assured 
by my renowned doctor that my real state of 
health at that time justifies no stronger de- 
scription, and I quote his own from his written 
answer to my request for it. 

As the circumstances of the murder, gradually 
unravelling, took stronger and stronger possession 
of the public mind, I kept them away from mine, 
by knowing as little about them as was possible 
in the midst of the universal excitement. But 
I knew that a verdict of wilful murder had been 
found against the suspected murderer, and that 
he had been committed to Newgate for trial. 
I also knew that his trial had been postponed 
Over one sessions of the Central Criminal Court, 
on the ground of general prejudice and want of 
time for the preparation of the defence. I may 
further have known, but I believe I did not, 
when, or about when, the sessions to which his 
trial stood postponed would come on. 

My sitting-room, bedroom, and dressing-room 
are all on one floor. With the last there is 
no communication but through the bedroom. 
True, there is a door in it, once communicating 


5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


with the staircase, but a part of the fitting of 
my bath has been—and had then been for 
some years—fixed across it. At the same period, 
and as a part of the same arrangement, the door 
had been nailed up and canvased over. 

I was standing in my bedroom late one night 
giving some directions to my servant before he 
went to bed. My face was toward the only 
available door of communication with the 
dressing-room, and it was closed. My servant’s 
back was toward that door. While I was 
speaking to him, I saw it open, and a man 
look in, who very earnestly and mysteriously 
beckoned to me. That man was the man who 
had gone second of the two along Piccadilly, 
.and whose face was of the colour of impure 
wax. 

The figure, having beckoned, drew back, and 
closed the door. With no longer pause than 
was made by my crossing the bedroom, I opened 
the dressing-room door, and looked in. I had 
a lighted candle already in my hand. I felt no 
inward expectation of seeing the figure in the 
dressing-room, and I did not see it there. 

Conscious that my servant stood amazed, I 
turned round to him, and said, ‘‘Derrick, could 
you believe that in my cool senses I fancied I 
saw a As I there laid my hand upon his 
breast, with a sudden start he trembled violently, 
and said, ‘‘Oh, Lord, yes, sir! A dead man 
beckoning!”’ 

Now I do not believe that this John Derrick, 


6 


Trial for Murder 


my trusty and attached servant for more than 
twenty years, had any impression whatever of 
having seen any such figure, until I touched 
him. The change in him was so startling, 
when I touched him, that I fully believe he 
derived his impression in some occult manner 
from me at that instant. 

I bade John Derrick bring some brandy, and 
I gave him a dram, and was glad to take one 
myself. Of what had preceded that night’s 
phenomenon I told him not a single word. 
Reflecting on it, I was absolutely certain that I 
had never seen that face before, except on the 
one occasion in Piccadilly. Comparing its 
expression when beckoning at the door with 
its expression when it had stared up at me as I 
stood at my window, I came to the conclusion 
that on the first occasion it had sought to fasten 
itself upon my memory, and that on the second 
occasion it had made sure of being immediately 
remembered. 

I was not very comfortable that night, though 
I felt a certainty, difficult to explain, that the 
figure would not return. At daylight I fell into 
a heavy sleep, from which I was awakened by 
John Derrick’s coming to my bedside with a 
paper in his hand. 

This paper, it appeared, had been the subject 
of an altercation at the door between its bearer 
and my servant. It was a summons to me to 
serve upon a jury at the forthcoming sessions 
of the central criminal court at the Old Bailey. 


7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


I had never before been summoned on such a 
jury, as John Derrick well knew. He believed 
—I am not certain at this hour whether with 
reason or otherwise—that that class of jurors 
were customarily chosen on a lower qualification 
than mine, and he had at first refused to accept 
the summons. The man who served it had taken 
the matter very coolly. -He had said that my 
attendance or non-attendance was nothing to 
him; there the summons was, and I should deal - 
with it at my own peril, and not at his. 

For a day or two I was undecided whether to — 
respond to this call, or take no notice of it. I 
was not conscious of the slightest mysterious 
bias, influence, or attraction, one way or other. 
Of that I am as strictly sure as of every other 
statement that I make here. Ultimately I 
decided, as a break in the monotony of my life, 
that I would go. 

The appointed morning was a raw morning 
in the month of November. There was a dense 
brown fog in Piccadilly, and it became positively 
black and in the last degree oppressive east of 
Temple Bar. I found the passages and stair- 
cases of the Court-House flaringly lighted with 
gas, and the Court itself similarly illuminated. 
I think that, until I was conducted by officers 
into the Old Court and saw its crowded state, 
I did not know that the murderer was to be 
tried that day. I think that, until I was so 
helped into the Old Court with considerable 
difficulty, I did not know into which of the two - 


8 


Trial for Murder 


courts sitting my summons would take me. But 
this must not be received as a positive assertion, 
for I am not completely satisfied in my mind on 
either point. 

I took my seat in the place appropriated to 
jurors in waiting, and I looked about the court 
as well as I could through the cloud of fog and 
breath that was heavy in it. I noticed the 
black vapour hanging like a murky curtain out- 
side the great windows, and I noticed the stifled 
sound of wheels on the straw or tan that was 
littered in the street; also, the hum of the people 
gathered there, which a shrill whistle, or a 
louder song or hail than the rest, occasionally 
pierced. Soon afterward the judges, two in 
number, entered, and took their seats. The 
buzz in the court was awfully hushed. The 
direction was given to put the murderer to the 
bar. He appeared there. And in that same 
instant I recognised in him the first of the two 
men who had gone down Piccadilly. 

If my name had been called then I doubt if 
I could have answered to it audibly; but it was 
called about sixth or eighth in the panel, and I 
was by that time able to say, ‘‘Here!”’ 

Now, observe. As I stepped into the box, the 
prisoner, who had been looking on attentively, 
but with no sign of concern, became violently 
agitated, and beckoned to his attorney. The 
prisoner’s wish to challenge me was so manifest 
that it occasioned a pause, during which the 
attorney, with his hand upon the dock, whispered 


9 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


with his client, and shook his head. I after- 
ward had it from that gentleman, that the 
prisoner’s first affrighted words to him were, 
“At all hazards, challenge that man!” But, 
as he would give no reason for it, and admitted 
that he had not even known my name until 
he heard it called and I appeared, it was not 
done. 

Both on the ground already explained, that 
I wish to avoid reviving the unwholesome 
memory of that murderer, and also because a 
detailed account of his long trial is by no means 
indispensable to my narrative, I shall confine 
myself closely to such incidents in the ten days 
and nights during which we, the jury, were 
kept together, as directly bear on my own 
curious personal experience. . It is in that, and 
not in the murderer, that I seek to interest my 
reader. It is to that, and not to a page of the 
Newgate Calendar, that I beg attention. 

I was chosen foreman of the jury On the 
second morning of the trial, after evidence had 
been taken for two hours (I heard the church 
clocks strike), happening to cast my eyes over 
my brother jurymen, I found an inexplicable 
difficulty in counting them. I counted them 
several times, yet always with the same difficulty 
In short, I made them one too many. 

I touched the brother juryman whose place 
was next me, and I whispered to him, ‘‘Oblige 
me by counting us.’”’ He looked surprised by 
the request, but turned his head and counted. 


Io 


Trial for Murder 


“Why,” says he, suddenly, ‘‘we are thirt 
But no, it’s not possible. No. Weare twelve.” 

According to my counting that day, we were 
always right in detail, but in the gross we were 
always one too many. There was no appear- 
ance—no figure—to account for it, but I had 
now an inward foreshadowing of the figure that 
was surely coming. 

The jury were housed at the London Tavern. 
We all slept in one large room on separate 
‘tables, and we were constantly in the charge and 
under the eye of the officer sworn to hold us in 
safe-keeping. I see no reason for suppressing 
the real name of that officer. He was intelligent, 
highly polite, and obliging, and (I was glad to 
hear) much respected in the city. He had an 
agreeable presence, good eyes, enviable black 
whiskers, and a fine sonorous voice. His name 
was Mr. Harker. 

When we turned into our twelve beds at 
night, Mr. Harker’s bed was drawn across the 
door. On the night of the second day, not 
being disposed to lie down, and seeing Mr. 
Harker sitting on his bed, I went and sat beside 
him, and offered him a pinch of snuff. As Mr. 
Harker’s hand touched mine in taking it from 
my box, a peculiar shiver crossed him, and he 
said, ‘‘Who is this?”’ 

Following Mr. Harker’s eyes, and looking 
along the room, I saw again the figure I ex- 
pected—the second of the two men who had 
gone down Piccadilly. I rose and advanced a 


Tr 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


few steps, then stopped, and looked round at 
Mr. Harker. He was quite unconcerned, laughed, 
and said, in a pleasant way, “I thought for a 
moment we had a thirteenth juryman, without 
a bed. But I see it is the moonlight.” 

Making no revelation to Mr. Harker, but 
inviting him to take a walk with me to the end 
of the room, I watched what the figure did. It 
stood for a few moments by the bedside of each 
of my eleven brother jurymen, close to the 
pillow. It always went to the right-hand side 
of the bed, and always passed out crossing the 
foot of the next bed. It seemed, from the action 
of the head, merely to look down pensively at 
each recumbent figure. It took no notice of 
me, or of my bed, which was that nearest to 
Mr. Harker’s. It seemed to go out where the 
moonlight came in, through a high window, as 
by an aerial flight of stairs. 

Next morning at breakfast, it appeared that 
everybody present had dreamed of the murdered 
man last night, except myself and Mr. Harker. 

I now felt as convinced that the second man 
who had gone down Piccadilly was the murdered 
man (so to speak), as if it had been borne into 
my comprehension by his immediate testimony. 
But even this took place, and in a manner for 
which I was not at all prepared. 

On the fifth day of the trial, when the case 
for the prosecution was drawing to a close, a 
miniature of the murdered man, missing from 
his bedroom upon the discovery of the deed, and 


14 


Trial for Murder 


afterward found in a hiding-place where the 
murderer had been seen digging, was put in 
evidence. Having been identified by the witness 
under examination, it was handed up to the 
bench, and thence handed down to be inspected 
by the jury. As an officer in a black gown was 
making his way with it across to me, the figure 
of the second man who had gone down Piccadilly 
impetuously started from the crowd, caught the 
miniature from the officer, and gave it to me 
with his own hands, at the same time saying, | 
in a low and hollow tone—before I saw the 
miniature, which was in a locket—‘‘J was 
younger then, and my face was not then drained 
of blood.” 

It also came between me and the brother 
juryman to whom I would have given the 
miniature, and between him and the brother 
juryman to whom he would have given it, 
and so passed it on through the whole of our 
number, and back into my possession. Not 
one of them, however, detected this. 

At table, and generally when we were shut 
up together in Mr. Harker’s custody, we had 
from -the first naturally discussed the day’s 
proceedings a good deal. On that fifth day, 
the case for the prosecution being closed, and 
we having that side of the question in a com- 
pleted shape before us, our discussion was more 
animated and serious. Among our number was 
a vestryman—the densest idiot I have ever seen 
at large—who met the plainest evidence with 


13 


Masterpieces of Fiction — 


the most preposterous objections, and who 
was sided with by two flabby parochial parasites 
—all the three impanelled from a district so 
delivered over to fever that they ought to have 
been upon their own trial for five hundred 
murders. When these mischievous blockheads 
were at their loudest, which was toward mid- 
night, while some of us were already preparing 
for bed, I again saw the murdered man. He 
stood grimly behind them, beckoning to me. 
On my going toward them, and striking into 
the conversation, he immediately retired. This 
was the beginning of a separate series of ap- 
pearances, confined to that long room in which 
we were confined. Whenever a knot of my 
brother jurymen laid their heads together, I 
saw the head of the murdered man among theirs. 
Whenever their comparison of notes was going 
against him, he would solemnly and irresistibly 
beckon to me. 

It will be borne in mind that down to the 
production of the miniature, on the fifth day 
of the trial, I had never seen the appearance 
in court. Three changes occurred now that 
we entered on the case for the defence. Two 
of them I will mention together, first. The 
figure was now in court continually, and it 
never there addressed itself to me, but always 
to the person who was speaking at the time. 
For instance: the throat of the murdered man 
had been cut straight across. In the opening 
speech for the defence, it was suggested that 


14 


Trial for Murder 


the deceased might have cut his own throat. At 
that very moment, the figure, with its throat in 
the dreadful condition referred to (this it had 
concealed before), stood at the speaker’s elbow, 
motioning across and across its windpipe, now 
with the right hand, now with the left, vigorously 
suggesting to the speaker himself the impossi- 
bility of such a wound having been self-inflicted 
by either hand. For another instance: a witness 
to character, a woman, deposed to the prisoner’s 
being the most amiable of mankind. The figure 
at that.instant stood on the floor before her, 
looking her full in the face, and pointing out the 
prisoner’s evil countenance with an extended 
arm and an outstretched finger. 

The third change now to be added impressed 
me strongly as the most marked and striking 
of all. I do not theorise upon it; I accurately 
state it, and there leave it., Although the 
appearance was not itself perceived by those 
whom it addressed, its coming close to such 
persons was invariably attended by some 
trepidation or disturbance on their part. It 
seemed to me as if it were prevented, by laws 
to which I was not amenable, from fully revealing 
itself to others, and yet as if it could invisibly, 
dumbly, and darkly overshadow their minds. 
When the leading counsel for the defence sug- 
gested that hypothesis of suicide, and the 
figure stood at the learned gentleman’s elbow, 
frightfully sawing at its severed throat, it is 
undeniable that the counsel faltered in his 


T5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


speech, lost for a few seconds the thread of his 
ingenious discourse, wiped his forehead with 
his handkerchief, and turned extremely pale. 
When the witness to character was confronted 
by the appearance, her eyes most certainly 
did follow the direction of its pointed finger, and 
rest in great hesitation and trouble upon the 
prisoner’s face. Two additional illustrations. 
will suffice. On the eighth day of the trial, after 
the pause which was every day made early in 
the afternoon for a few minutes’ rest and re- 
freshment, I came back into court with the rest 
of the jury some little time before the return of 
the judges. Standing up in the box and looking 
about me, I thought the figure was not there, 
until, chancing to raise my eyes to the gallery, I 
saw it bending forward, and leaning over a very 
decent woman, as if to assure itself whether the 
judges had resumed their seats or not. Im- 
mediately afterward that woman screamed, 
fainted, and was carried out. So with the 
venerable, sagacious, and patient judge who 
conducted the trial. When the case was over, 
and he settled himself and his papers to sum up, 
the murdered man, entering by the judges’ 
door, advanced to his Lordship’s desk, and 
‘looked eagerly over his shoulder at the pages of 
‘his notes which he was turning. A change 
' came over his Lordship’s face; his hand stopped; 
_the peculiar shiver that I knew so well passed 
over him; he faltered; ‘Excuse me, gentlemen, 
.for a few moments. I am somewhat oppressed 


16 


Trial for Murder 


\ by the vitiated air.’”” And he did not recover 
Heke he had drunk a i of water. 
| Through all the monotony of six of those 
‘interminable ten days—the same judges and 
others on the bench, the same murderer in the 
dock, the same lawyers at the table, the same 
| tones of question and answer rising to the roof 
| of the court, the same scratching of the judge’s 
pen, the same ushers going in and out, the same 
| lights kindled at the same hour when there had 
, been any natural light of day, the same foggy 
\curtain outside the great windows when it was 
foggy, the same rain pattering and dripping 
when it was rainy, the same foot-marks of 
turnkeys and prisoner day after day on the 
same sawdust, the same keys locking and un- 
locking the same heavy doors—through all the 
' wearisome monotony which made me feel as 
if I had been foreman of the jury for a vast 
period of time, and Piccadilly had flourished 
coevally with Babylon, the murdered man 
never lost one trace of his distinctness in my 
eyes, nor was he at any moment less distinct 
than anybody else. I must not omit, as a 
matter of fact, that I never once saw the ap- 
pearance which I call by the name of the mur- 
dered man look at the murderer. Again and 
again I wondered, ‘‘Why does he not?” But 
he never did. 
Nor did he look at me, after the production of 
the miniature, until the last closing minutes 
of the trial arrived. We retired to consider, at 


17 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


seven minutes before ten at night. The idiotic 
vestryman and his two parochial parasites 
gave us so much trouble that we twice returned 
into court to beg to have certain extracts from 
the judge’s notes re-read. Nine of us, had not 
the smallest doubt about those passages, neither, 
I believe, had anyone in the court. The dunder- 
headed triumvirate, however, having no idea 
but obstruction, disputed them for that very 
reason. At length we prevailed, and finally 
the jury returned into court at ten minutes past 
twelve. | 

The murdered man at that time stood directly 
opposite the jury-box, on the other side of the 
court. As I took my place, his eyes rested on 
me with great attention. He seemed satisfied, 
and slowly shook a great gray veil, which he 
carried on his arm for the first time, over his 
head and whole form. As I gave in our verdict, 
“Guilty,” the veil collapsed, all was gone, and 
his place was empty. 

The murderer, being asked by the judge, 
according to usage, whether he had anything 
to say before sentence of death should be passed 
upon him, indistinctly muttered something 
which was described in the leading newspapers 
of the following day as ‘‘a few rambling, in- 
coherent, and half-audible words, in which he 
was understood to complain that he had not 
had a fair trial, because the foreman of the 
jury was prepossessed against him.’ The 
remarkable declaration that he really made was 


18 


Trial for Murder 


this: ‘‘My Lord, I knew I was a doomed man 
when the foreman of my jury came into the 
box. My Lord, I knew he would never let me 
off, because, before I was taken, he somehow 
got to my bedside in the night, woke me, and 
put a rope round my neck.” 


19 


THE NECKLACE 


BY 


Henri RENE ALBERT Guy DE MAUPASSANT ~ 


SHE was one of those pretty, charming girls 
who are sometimes, as if through the irony of | 
fate, born into a family of clerks. She was 
without dowry or expectations, and. had no 
means of becoming known, appreciated, loved, 
wedded, by any rich or influential man; so she 
allowed herself to be married to a small clerk 
belonging to the Ministry of Public Instruction. 
She dressed plainly because she could not afford 
to dress well, and was unhappy because she felt 
she had dropped from her proper station, which 
for women is a matter of attractiveness, beauty, 
and grace, rather than of family descent. Good 
manners, an intuitive knowledge of what is ele- 
gant, nimbleness of wit, are the only require- 
ments necessary to place a woman of the people 
on an equality with one of the aristocracy. 

She fretted constantly, feeling all things 
delicate and luxurious to be her birthright. 
She suffered on account of the meagreness of her 
surroundings, the bareness of the walls, the 
tarnished furniture, the ugly curtains; defi- 
ciencies which would have left any other woman 
of her class untouched, irritated and tormented 


20 


The Necklace 


her. The sight of the little Breton peasant who 
did her humble housework engendered hopeless 
regrets followed by fantastic dreams. She 
thought of a noiseless, hallowed ante-room, with 
Oriental carpets, lighted with tall branching 
candlesticks of bronze and of two big, knee- 
breeched footmen, drowsy from the _ stove- 
heated air, dozing in great arm-chairs. She 
thought of a long drawing-room hung with 
ancient brocade, of a beautiful cabinet holding 
priceless curios, of an alluring, scented boudoir 
intended for five-o’clock chats with intimates, 
with men famous and courted, and whose 
acquaintance is longed for by all women. 

When she sat down to dinner, at the round 
table spread with a cloth three days old, opposite 
her husband who uncovered the tureen, and 
exclaimed with ecstasy, ‘‘Ah, I like a good 
stew! I know nothing to beat this!’”’ she thought 
of dainty dinners, of shining plate, of tapestry 
which peopled the walls with human shapes, and 
with strange birds flying among fairy trees. 
And then she thought of delicious viands served 
in costly dishes, and of murmured gallantries 
which you listen to with a comfortable smile 
while you are eating the rose-tinted flesh of a 
trout or the wing of a quail. 

She had no handsome gowns, no jewels—noth- 
ing, though these were her whole life; it was these 
that meant existence to her. She would so have 
liked to please, to be thought fascinating, to be 
envied, to be sought out. She had a friend, a 


2I 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


former schoolmate at the convent, who was 
rich, but whom she did not like to go to see any 
more because she would come home jealous, 
covetous. 

But one evening her husband returned home 
jubilant, holding a large envelope in his hand. 

‘“Here is something for, you,” he said. 

She tore open the cover sharply, and drew 
out a printed card bearing these words: ‘‘The 
Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. Georges 
Ramponneau request the honour of M. and 
Mme. Loisel’s company at the palace of the 
Ministry on Monday evening, January 18th.” 

Instead of being delighted as her husband 
expected, she threw the invitation on the table ~ 
with disgust, muttering, ‘‘What do you think I 
can do with that?”’ 

“But, my dear, I thought you would be 
pleased. You never go anywhere, and this is 
such a rare opportunity. I had hard work to 
getit. Every one is wild to go; it is very select, 
and invitations to clerks are scarce. The whole 
official world will be there.” 

She looked at him with a scornful eye, as 
she said petulantly, ‘“And what have I to 
put on my back?” He had not thought 
of that. He stammered, “‘Why, the dress 
you wear to the theatre; it looks all right to 
mei; 

He stopped in despair, seeing his wife was 
crying. Two big tears rolled down from the 
corners of her eyes to the corners of her mouth. 


22 


The Necklace 


““What’s the matter? What’s the matter?” 
he faltered. $ 

With great effort, she controlled herself, and 
replied coldly, while she dried her wet cheeks: 

‘“‘Nothing, except that I have'no dress, and, 
for that reason, cannot go to the ball. Give 
your invitation to some fellow-clerk whose wife 
is better provided than I am.” 

He was dumfounded, but replied: 

““Come, Mathilde, let us see now—how much 
would a suitable dress cost; one you could wear 
at other times—something quite simple?” 

She pondered several moments, calculating, 
and guessing too, how much she could safely ask 
for without an instant refusal or bringing down 
upon her head a volley of objections from her 
frugal husband. . 

At length she said hesitatingly, ‘‘I can’t say 
exactly, but I think I could do with four hundred 
francs.” 

He changed colour because he was laying aside 
just that sum to buy a gun and treat himself to 
a little shooting next summer on the plain of 
Nanterre, with several friends, who went down 
there on Sundays to shoot larks. Nevertheless, 
he said: ‘‘Very well, I will give you four 
hundred francs. Get a pretty dress.”’ 


The day of the ball drew near, and Mme. 
Loisel seemed despondent, nervous, upset, 
though her dress was all ready. One evening 
her husband observed: ‘I say, what is the 


23 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


matter, Mathilde? You have been very queer 
lately.’”’ And she replied, “It exasperates me 
not to have a single ornament of any kind to 
put on. I shall look like a fright—I would 
almost rather. stay at home.’ He answered: 
‘‘Why not wear flowers? They are very fash- 
ionable at this time of the year. You can get 
a handful of fine roses for ten francs.” 

But she was not persuaded. ‘“‘No, it’s so 
mortifying to look poverty-stricken among 
women who are rich.”’ 

Then her husband exclaimed: ‘‘How slow 
you are! Go and see your friend, Mme. Fores- 
tier, and ask her to lend you some jewels. You 
know her well enough to do that.” . 

She gave an exclamation of delight: “‘True! 
I never thought of that!”’ 

Next day she went to her friend and poured 
out her woes. Mme. Forestier went to a closet 
with a glass door, took out a large jewel-box, 
brought it back, opened it, and said to Mme. 
Loisel, ‘‘Here, take your choice, my dear.” 

She looked at some bracelets, then at a pearl 
necklace, and then at a Venetian cross curiously 
wrought of gold and precious stones. She tried 
on the ornaments before the mirror, hesitated, 
was loath to take them off and return them. 
She kept inquiring, ‘‘Have you any more?”’ 

‘“‘Certainly, look for yourself. I don’t know 
what you want.” 

Suddenly Mathilde discovered, in a black satin 
box, a magnificent necklace of diamonds, and 


24 


The Necklace 


her heart began to beat with excitement. With 
trembling hands she took -the necklace and 
fastened it round her neck outside her dress, 
becoming lost in admiration of herself as she 
looked in the glass. Tremulous with fear lest 
she be refused, she asked, ‘‘Will you lend me 
this—only this?” 

“Yes, of course I will.” 

Mathilde fell upon her friend’s neck, kissed 
her passionately, and rushed off with her 
treasure. ? 


The day of the ball arrived. 

Mme. Loisel was a great success. She was 
prettier than them all, lovely, gracious, smiling, 
and wild with delight. All the men looked at 
her, inquired her name, tried to be introduced; 
all the officials of the Ministry wanted a waltz 
—even the minister himself noticed her. She 
danced with abandon, with ecstasy, intoxicated 
with joy, forgetting everything in the triumph 
of her beauty, in the radiance of her success, in 
a kind of mirage of bliss made up of all this 
worship, this adulation, of all these stirring 
impulses, and of that realisation of perfect sur- 
render, so sweet to the soul of woman. 

She left about four in the morning. 

Since midnight her husband had been sleeping 
in a little deserted anteroom with three other 
‘men whose wives were enjoying themselves. 
He threw over her shoulders the wraps he 
had brought, ordinary, everyday garments, con- 


25 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


trasting sorrily with her elegant ball dress. She 
felt this, and wanted to get away so as not to be 
seen by the other women, who were putting on 
costly furs. 

Loisel detained her: ‘‘Wait a little; you 
will catch cold outside; I will go and call a 
cab. 

But she would not listen to him, and hurried 
down-stairs. When they reached the street 
they could not find a carriage, and they began 
to look for one, shouting to the cabmen who 
were passing by. They went down toward the 
fiver in desperation, shivering with cold. At 
last they found on the quays one of those 
antiquated, all-night broughams, which, in 
Paris, wait till after dark before venturing to 
display their dilapidation. It took them to their 
door in the Rue des Martyrs, and once more, 
wearily, they climbed the stairs. . 

Now all was over for her; as for him, he 
remembered that he must be at his office at ten 
o’clock. She threw off her cloak before the glass, 
that she might behold herself once more in all 
her magnificence. Suddenly she uttered a cry 
of dismay—the necklace was gone! 

Her husband, already half-undressed, called 
out, ‘‘Anything wrong?” 

She turned wildly toward him: “I have—I 
have—I’ve lost Mme. Forestier’s necklace!”’ 

He stood, aghast: ‘‘Where? When? You - 
haven’t!”’ 

They looked in the folds of her dress, in the 


26. 


| 
{ 


¥ 


The Necklace 


folds of her cloak, in her pocket, everywhere. 
They could not find it. © 

‘‘Are you sure,” he said, ‘‘that you had it on 
when you left the ball?” 

“Yes; I felt it in the corridor of the palace.” 

“But if you had lost it in the street, we 
should have heard it fall. It must be in the 
cab.” 

“‘No doubt. Did you take his number?” 

“No. And didn’t you notice it either?” 

“No.” 

They looked at each other, terror-stricken. 
At last Loisel put on his clothes. 

**T shall go back on foot,’’ he said, ‘‘over the 
whole route we came by, to see if I can’t find it.” 

He went out, and she sat waiting in her ball 
dress, too dazed to go to bed, cold, crushed,’ 
lifeless, unable to think. Her husband came 
back at seven o’clock. He had found nothing. 
He went to Police Headquarters, to the news- 
paper office—where he advertised a reward. He 
went to the cab companies—to every place, in 
fact, that seemed at all hopeful. 

She waited all day in the same awful state of 
mind at this terrible misfortune. 

Loisel returned at night with a wam, white 
face. He had found nothing. 

‘‘Write immediately to your friend,” said he, 
“that you have broken the clasp of her necklace, 
and that you have taken it to be mended. 
That will give us time to turn about.” 

She wrote as he told her. 


27 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


By the end of the week they had given up all 
hope. Loisel, who looked five years older, said, 
““We must plan how we can replace the neck- 
lace.”’ 

The next day they took the black satin box 
to the jeweller whose name was found inside. 
He referred to his books. 

““You did not buy that necklace of me, 
Madame. Ican only have supplied the case.” 

They went from jeweller to jeweller, hunting 
for a necklace like the lost one, trying to remem- 
ber its appearance, heartsick with shame and 
misery. Finally,in a shop at the Palais Royal, 
they found a string of diamonds which looked 
to them’ just like the: other. The price was 
_forty thousand francs, but they could have it 
for thirty-six thousand. They begged the 
jeweller to keep it three days for them, and 
made an agreement with him that he should 
buy it back for thirty-four thousand francs if 
they found the lost necklace before the last of 
February. 

Loisel had inherited eighteen thousand francs 
from his father. He could borrow the remainder. 
And he did borrow right and left, asking a 
thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, 
five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, 
assumed heavy obligations, trafficked with 
money-lenders at usurious rates, and, putting 
the rest of his life in pawn, pledged his signature 
over and over again. Not knowing how he was 
to make it all good, and terrified by the penalty 


28 . 


The Necklace 


yet to come, by the dark destruction which hung 
over him, by the certainty of incalculable 
deprivations of body and tortures of soul, he 
went to get the new bauble, throwing down upon 
the jeweller’s counter the thirty-six thousand 
francs. 

When Mme. Loisel returned the necklace, 
Mme. Forestier said to her coldly: ‘‘Why did you 
not bring it back sooner? I might have wanted 
i" 

She did not open the case—to the great relief 
of her friend. 

Supposing she had! Would she have dis- 
covered the substitution, and what would she 
have said? Would she not have accused Mme. 
Loisel of theft? 

Mme. Loisel now knew what it was to be in 
want, but she showed sudden and remarkable 
courage. That awful debt must be paid, and 
she would pay it. 

They sent away their servant, and moved up 
into a garret under the roof. She began to 
find out what heavy housework and the fatiguing 
drudgery of the kitchen meant. She washed the 
dishes, scraping the greasy pots and pans with 
her rosy nails. She washed the dirty linen, the 
shirts and dish-towels, which dried upon the 
line. She lugged slops and refuse down to the 
street every morning, bringing back fresh water, 
stopping on every landing, panting for breath. 
With her basket on her arm, and dressed like 
a woman of the people, she haggled with the 


29 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


fruiterer, the grocer, and the butcher, often 
insulted, but getting every sou’s worth that 
belonged to her. 

Each month notes had to be met, others 
renewed, extensions of time procured. Her 
husband worked in the evenings, straightening 
out tradesmen’s accounts; he sat up late at night, 
copying manuscripts at five sous a page. 

And this they did for ten years. 

- At the end of that time they had paid up 
everything, everything—with all the principal 
and the accumulated compound interest. 

Mme. Loisel looked old now. She had become 
a domestic drudge, sinewy, rough-skinned, 
coarse. With towsled hair, tucked-up skirts, and 
red hands, she would talk loudly while mopping 
the floor with great splashes of water. But 
sometimes, when alone, she sat near the window, 
and she thought of that gay evening long ago, of 
the ball where she had been so beautiful, so 
much admired. Supposing she had not lost the 
necklace — what then? Who knows? Who 
knows? Life is so strange and shifting. How 
easy it is to be ruined or saved! _ 


But one Sunday, going for a walk in the 
Champs Elysées to refresh herself after her 
hard week’s work, she accidentally came upon a 
familiar-looking woman with a child. It was 
Mme. Forestier, still young, still lovely, still 
charming. 

Mme. Loisel became agitated. Should she 


30 


The Necklace 


speak to her? Of course. Now that she had 
paid, she would tell her all about it. Why not? 
She went up to her. | 

‘‘How do you do, Jeanne?’’ 

The other, astonished at the easy manner 
toward her assumed by a plain housewife 
whom she did not recognise, said: 

‘‘But, Madame, you have made a mistake; I 
do not know you.”’ 

“Why, I am Mathilde Loisel!”’ 

Her friend gave a start. 

“‘Oh, my poor Mathilde,” she cried, ‘‘how you 
have changed!”’ 

**Yes; I have seen hard days since last I 
saw you; hard enough—and all because of 
you.” 

“Of me? And why?” 

““You remember the diamond necklace you 
loaned me to wear at the Ministry ball?” 

coves lida. | What.ofitr” 

“Well, I lost it!” 

“But you brought it back—explain eonmeel. ee 

““I bought one just like it, and it took us ten 
years to pay forit. It was not easy for us who 
had nothing, but it is all over now, and I am 
glad.”’ 

Mme. Forestier stared. 

“‘And you bought a necklace of diamonds to 
replace mine?” 

“Yes; and you never knew the difference, 
they were so alike.’ And she smiled with 
joyful pride at the success of it all. 


at 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Mme. Forestier, deeply moved, took both her 
hands. 

‘‘Oh, my poor Mathilde! My necklace was 
paste. It was worth only about five hundred 
francs!” 


86 


PETER SCHLEMIHL 


BY 


ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO 
I 


AFTER a prosperous, but to me very weari- 
some, voyage we at last came into port. Im- 
mediately on landing, I got together my few 
effects, and, squeezing through the crowd, went 
into the nearest and humblest inn which first 
met my gaze. When I requested a room, the 
waiter scanned me from head to foot, and con- 
ducted me to one. I asked for some cold water, 
and for the correct address of Mr. Thomas John, 
which was described as being ‘‘by the north gate, 
the first country-house to the right, a large new 
house of red and white marble, with many pil- 
lars.””’ This was enough. As the day was not 
yet far advanced, I untied my bundle, took out 
my newly turned black coat, dressed myself in 
my best clothes, and, with my letter of recom- 
mendation, set out for the man who was to assist 
me in the attainment of my moderate wishes. 

After proceeding up the north street, I reached 
the gate, and saw the marble columns glittering 
through the trees. Having wiped the dust from 
my shoes with my pocket-handkerchief, and re- 


33 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


adjusted my cravat, I rang the bell—offering up 
at the same time a silent prayer. The door flew 
open, and the porter sent in my name. I soon 
had the honour to be invited into the park, where 
Mr. John was walking with a few friends. I 
recognised him at once by his corpulency and 
self-complacent air. He received me very well 
—just as a rich man receives a poor devil; and 
turning to me, took my letter. ‘‘Oh, from my 
brother! it is a long time since I heard from him: 
is he well? Yonder,’ he went on—turning to 
the company, and pointing to a distant hill— 
“‘yonder is the site of the new building.” He 
broke the seal without discontinuing the con- 
versation, which turned upon riches. ‘“‘The 
man,” he said, ‘‘who does not possess at least a 
million is a poor wretch.”’” ‘‘Oh, how true!” I 
exclaimed, in the fulness of my heart. He 
seemed pleased at this, and replied with a smile, 
‘Stop here, my dear friend; afterward I shall, 
perhaps, have time to tell you what I think of 
this,’ pointing to the letter, which he then put 
into his pocket, and, turning round to the com- 
pany, offering his arm to a young lady: his ex- 
ample was followed by the other gentlemen, each 
politely escorting a lady; and the whole party 
proceeded toward a little hill thickly planted 
with blooming roses. 

I followed without troubling any one, for none 
took the least further notice of me. The party | 
was in high spirits—lounging about and jesting 
—speaking sometimes of trifling matters very 


34 


Peter Schlemihl 


seriously, and of serious matters as triflingly— 
and exercising their wit in particular to great 
advantage on their absent friends and their af- 
fairs. I was too ignorant of what they were 
talking about to understand much of it, and too 
anxious and absorbed in my own reflections to 
occupy myself with the solution of such enigmas 
as their conversation presented. — 

By this time we had reached the thicket of 
roses. The lovely Fanny, who seemed to be the 
queen of the day, was obstinately bent on pluck- 
ing a rose-branch for herself, and, in the attempt, 
pricked her finger with a thorn. The crimson 
stream, as if flowing from the dark-tinted rose, 
tinged her fair hand with the purple current. 
This circumstance set the whole company in 
commotion; and court-plaster was called for. 
A quiet, elderly man, tall and meagre-looking, 
who was one of the company, but whom I had 
not before observed, immediately put his hand 
into the tight breast-pocket of his old-fashioned 
coat of gray sarsenet, pulled out a small letter- 
case, opened it, and, with a most respectful bow, 
presented the lady with the wished-for article. 
She received it without noticing the giver or 
thanking him. The wound was bound up, and 
the party proceeded along the hill toward the 
back part, from which they enjoyed an extensive 
view across the green labyrinth of the park to 
the wide-spreading ocean. The view was truly 
a magnificent one. A slight speck was observed 
on the horizon, between the dark flood and the 


35 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


azure sky. ‘‘A telescope!” called out Mr. John; 
but before any of the servants could answer the 
summons, the gray man, with a modest bow, 
drew his hand from his pocket and presented a 
beautiful Dollond’s telescope to Mr. John, who, 
on looking through it, informed the company 
that the speck in the distance was the ship which 
had sailed yesterday, and which was detained 
within sight of the haven by contrary winds. 
The telescope passed from hand to hand, but was 
not returned to the owner, whom I gazed at with 
astonishment, since I could not conceive how-so 
large an instrument could have proceeded from 
so small a pocket. This, however, seemed to 
excite surprise in no one; and the gray man ap- 
peared to create as little interest as myself. 

Refeshments were now brought forward, con- 
sisting of the rarest fruits from all parts of the 
world, served up in the most costly dishes. Mr. 
John did the honours with unaffected grace, and 
addressed me for the second time, saying, ‘‘ You 
had better eat; you did not get such things at 
sea.”’ I acknowledged his politeness with a bow, 
which, however, he did not perceive, having 
turned round to speak with some one else. 

The party would willingly have stopped some 
time here on the declivity of the hill, to enjoy the 
extensive prospect before them, had they not 
been apprehensive of the dampness of the grass. 
‘“How delightful it would be,’”’ exclaimed some 
one, “if we had a Turkey carpet to lay down 
here!’’ The wish was scarcely expressed when 


36 


Peter Schlemihl 


the man in the gray coat put his hand in his 
pocket, and, with a modest and even humble air, 
pulled out a rich Turkey carpet, embroidered in 
gold. The servant received it as a matter of 
course, and spread it out on the desired spot; 
and, without any ceremony, the company seated 
themselves on it. Confounded by what I saw, 
I gazed again at the man, his pocket, and the car- 
pet, which was more than twenty feet in length 
and tenin breadth; I rubbed my eyes, not know- 
ing what to think, particularly as no one ap- 
peared to see anything extraordinary in the 
matter. 

I should gladly have made some inquiries re- 
specting the man, and asked who he was, but 
knew not to whom I should address myself, for 
I felt almost more afraid of the servants than of 
their master. At length I took courage, and, 
stepping up to a young man who seemed of less 
consequence than the others, and who was more 
frequently standing by himself, I begged of him, . 
in a low tone, to tell me who the obliging gentle- 
man -in the gray cloak was. ‘‘That man who 
looks like a piece of thread just escaped from a 
tailor’s needle?’’ ‘‘Yes; he who is standing 
alone yonder.”’ ‘‘I do not know,” was the reply; 
and to avoid, as it seemed, any further conver- 
sation with me, he turned away, and spoke of 
some commonplace matters with a neighbour. 

The sun’s rays now being stronger, the ladies 
complained of feeling oppressed by the heat; 
and the lovely Fanny, turning carelessly to the 


37 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


gray man, to whom I had not yet observed that 
any one had addressed the most trifling question, . 
asked him if, perchance, he had not a tent about 

him. He replied with a low bow, as if some un- 

merited honour had been conferred upon him, 

and, putting his hand in his pocket, drew from it 

canvas, poles, cord, iron—in short, everything 

belonging to the most splendid tent for a party 

of pleasure. The young gentlemen assisted in 

pitching it, and it covered the whole carpet; but 

no one seemed to think that there was anything 

extraordinary about the matter. . 

I had long felt secretly uneasy—indeed, al- 
most horrified; but how was this feeling in- 
creased when, at the next wish expressed, I saw 
him take from his pocket three horses! Yes, 
Adelbert, three large beautiful steeds, with sad- 
dles and bridles, out of the very pocket whence 
had already issued a letter-case, a telescope, a 
carpet twenty feet broad and ten in length, and 
a pavilion of the same extent, with all its appur- 
tenances! Did I not assure thee that my own 
eyes had seen all this, thou wouldst certainly 
disbelieve it. 

This man, although he appeared so humble and 
embarrassed in his air and manners, and passed 
so unheeded, had inspired me with such a feeling 
of horror by the unearthly paleness of his coun- 
tenance, from which I could not avert my eyes, © 
that I was unable longer to endure it. 

I determined, therefore, to steal away from 
the company, which appeared no difficult mat- 


38 


Peter Schlemihl 


ter, from the undistinguished part I acted in it. 
I resolved to return to the town, and pay an- 
other visit to Mr. John the following morning, 
and, at the same time, make some inquiries of 
him relative to the extraordinary man in gray, 
provided I could command sufficient courage. 
Would to Heaven that such good-fortune had 
awaited me! 

I had stolen safely down the hill, through the 
thicket of roses, and now found myself on an 
open plain; but, fearing lest I should be met out 
of the proper path, crossing the grass, I cast an 
inquisitive glance around, and started as I be- 
held the man in the gray cloak advancing toward 
me. He took off his hat, and made me a lower 
bow than mortal had ever yet favoured me with. 
It was evident that he wished to address me, and 
I could not avoid encountering him without 
seeming rude. I returned his salutation, there- 
fore, and stood bareheaded in the sunshine as if 
rooted to the ground. I gazed at him with the 
utmost horror, and felt like a bird fascinated by 
a serpent. 

He affected an air of embarrassment. With 
his eyes on the ground, he bowed several times, 
drew nearer, and at last, without looking up, 
addressed me in a low and hesitating voice, al- 
most in the tone of a suppliant: ‘‘Will you, sir, 
excuse my importunity in venturing to intrude 
upon you in so unusual a manner? I have a 
request to make—would you most graciously be 
pleased to allow me ?” “Hold! for Heaven’s 


39 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


sake!’’ I exclaimed. ‘‘What can I do for a man 
who ’? [ stopped in some confusion, which he 
seemed to share. After a moment’s pause, he 
resumed: ‘‘During the short time I have had 
the. pleasure to be in your company, I have— 
permit me, sir, to say—been looking with in- 
tense admiration at your most beautiful shadow, 
and have remarked the air of noble indifference 
with which you, at the same time, turn from the 
glorious picture at your feet, as if disdaining to 
vouchsafe it a glance. Excuse the boldness of 
my proposal; but perhaps you would have no ob- 
jection to selling me your shadow?”’ He stopped, 
while my head turned round like a mill-wheel. 
What was I to think of so extraordinary a pro- 
posal? Sell my shadow! ‘‘He must be mad,” 
thought I, and assuming a tone more in accord- 
ance with the submissiveness of his own, I re- 
plied: “‘My good friend, are you not content 
with your own shadow? This would be a bar- 
gain of a strange nature indeed!”’ 

‘‘T have in my pocket,” he said, “‘many things 
which may possess some value in your eyes: for 
that inestimable shadow, J should deem the high- 
est price too little.” 

A cold shudder came over me as I recol- 
lected the pocket; and I could not conceive what 
had induced me to style him ‘“‘good friend,” 
which I took care not to repeat, endeavouring to 
make up for it by a studied politeness. 

I now resumed the conversation: ‘“‘But, sir— 
excuse your humble servant—I am at a loss to 


40 


Peter Schlemihl 


comprehend your meaning—my shadow ?—how 
can ]— -?” 

‘‘Permit me,’ he exclaimed, interrupting me, 
““to gather up the noble image as it lies on the 
ground, and to take it into my possession. -As 
to the manner of accomplishment, leave that to 
me. In return, and as an evidence of my grati- 
tude, I will let you take your choice of all the 
treasures I have in my pocket, among which are 
a variety of charming articles, not exactly 
adapted for you, who, I am sure, would pre- 
fer the wishing-cap of Fortunatus, all made new 
and sound again, and a lucky purse which also 
belonged to him.”’ 

‘‘Fortunatus’s purse!’”’ cried I; for, great as 
was my mental anguish, with that one word he 
had penetrated the deepest recesses of my soul. 
A feeling of giddiness came over me, and double 
ducats glittered before my eyes. 

“‘Be pleased, gracious sir, to examine this 
purse, and make a trial of its contents.’’ He put 
his hand in his pocket, and drew forth a large, 
strongly stitched bag of stout Cordovan leather, 
with a couple of strings to match, and presented 
it tome. I seized it—took out ten gold pieces, 
then ten more, and this I repeated again and 
again. Instantly, I held out my hand to him. 
‘‘Done,”’ said I; ‘‘the bargain is made: my 
shadow for the purse.’”’ ‘‘ Agreed,” he answered; 
and, immediately kneeling down, I beheld him, 
with extraordinary dexterity, gently loosen my 
shadow from the grass, lift it up, fold it together, 


41 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


and, finally, put it in his pocket. He then rose, 
bowed once more to me, and directed his steps 
toward the rose-bushes. I fancied I heard him 
quietly laughing to himself. However, I held 
the purse fast by the two strings. The earth 
was basking beneath the brightness of the sun— 
but about that time I lost consciousness. 

On recovering my senses, I hastened to quit a 
place where I hoped there was nothing further 
to detain me. I first filled my pockets with gold, 
then fastened the strings of the purse round my 
neck, and concealed it in my bosom. I passed 
unnoticed out of the park, gained the high road, 
and took the way to the town. As I was 
thoughtfully approaching the gate, I heard some 
one behind me exclaiming, ‘‘Young man! young 
man! you have lost your shadow!’”’ I turned 
and perceived an old woman calling after me. 
“Thank you, my good woman,” said I, and 
throwing her a piece of gold for her well-intended 
information, I stepped under the trees. At the 
gate, again, it was my fate to hear the sentry - 
inquiring where the gentleman had left his 
shadow, and immediately after I heard a couple 
of women exclaiming, ‘‘Jesus Maria, the poor man 
has no shadow!”’ All this began to depress me, 
and I carefully avoided walking in the sun. But 
this was not possible everywhere,. and in the 
next broad street I had to cross, unfortunately 
at the very hour when the boys were coming out 
of school, a humpbacked lout of a fellow—I see 
him yet—soon made the discovery that I was 


42 


Peter Schlemihl 


without a shadow, and communicated the news, 
with loud shouts, to a knot of young urchins. 
The whole swarm immediately surrounded me 
and pelted me with mud. ‘‘People,’’ cried they, 
““generally take their shadows with them when 
they walk in the sun!”’ 

In order to drive them away, I threw gold by 
handfuls among them, and sprang into a hackney- 
coach which some compassionate spectators sent 
to my rescue. 

As soon as I found myself alone in the rolling 
vehicle, I began to weep bitterly. I had by this 
time a misgiving that, in the same degree in 
which gold in this world prevails over merit and 
virtue, by so much one’s ‘shadow excels gold. 
Now that I had sacrificed my conscience for 
riches, and given my shadow in exchange for 
mere gold, what on earth would become of me? 

As the coach stopped at the door of my inn, 
I felf much perplexed and not at all disposed to 
enter so wretched an abode. I called for my 
things, and received them with an air of con- 
tempt, threw down a few gold pieces, and re- 
quested to be driven to a first-rate hotel. This 
house had a northern aspect, so that I had noth- 
ing to fear from the sun. I dismissed the coach- 
man with gold; asked to be conducted to the 
best apartment, and locked myself up in it as 
soon as possible. 

Imagine, my friend, what I then did! Oh, 
my dear Chamisso, I blush to mention it even to 
thee! 


43 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


I drew the ill-fated purse from my bosom, and, 
in a sort of frenzy that raged like a self-fed fire 
within me, I took out gold—gold—gold—more 
and more, strewed it on the floor, trampled upon 
it, and, feasting on its very sound and brilliancy, 
added coin to coin, rolling and revelling on the 
gorgeous bed, until I became exhausted. 

Thus passed away that day and evening, and, 
as my door remained locked, night found me 
still lying on the gold, where, at last, sleep over- 
powered me. 

I awoke—it seemed yet early—my watch had 
stopped. I felt thirsty, faint, and worn out; for 
since the preceding morning I had not tasted 
food. I now cast from me, with loathing and 
disgust, the very gold with which but a short 
time before I-had satiated my foolish heart. 
Now I knew not where to put it—I dared not 
leave it lying there. I examined my purse to 
see if it would hold it—impossible! Neither of 
my windows opened on the sea. I had no other 
resource but, with toil and great fatigue, to drag 
it to a huge chest which stood in a closet in my 
room; where I put it all, with the exception of 
a handful or two. As soon as possible I sent 
for some refreshment and asked for the landlord. 

I entered into some conversation with this 
man respecting the arrangement of my future 
establishment. He recommended for my per- 
sonal attendant one Bendel, whose honest and 
intelligent countenance immediately prepos- 
sessed me in his favour. It is this individual 


44 


Peter Schlemihl 


whose persevering attachment has consoled me 
in all the miseries of my hfe, and enabled me to 
bear up under my wretched lot. I was occu- 
pied the whole day in my room with servants in 
want of a situation, and tradesmen of every 
description. I decided on my future plans, and 
purchased various articles of vertu and splendid 
jewels, in order to get rid of some of my gold; 
but nothing seemed to diminish the inexhaus- 
tible heap. 

I now reflected on my situation with the ut- 
most uneasiness. I dared not take a single step 
beyond my own door; and in the evening I had 
forty wax tapers lighted before I ventured to 
leave the shade. I reflected with horror on the 
frightful encounter with the school-boys; yet 
I resolved, if I could command sufficient cour- 
age, to put the public opinion to a second trial. 
The nights were now moonlit. Late in the even- 
ing I wrapped myself in a large cloak, pulled my 
hat over my eyes, and, trembling like a criminal, 
stole out of the house. 

I did not venture to leave the friendly shadow 
of the houses until I had reached a distant part 
of the town; and then I emerged into. the 
broad moonlight fully prepared to hear my fate 
from the lips of the passers-by. 

Spare me, my beloved friend, the painful re- 
cital of all that I was doomed to endure. The 
women often expressed the deepest sympathy 
for me—a sympathy not less piercing to my soul 
than the scoffs of the young people and the 


45 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


proud contempt of the men, particularly of the 
more corpulent who threw an ample shadow 
before them. A fair and beauteous maiden, 
apparently accompanied by her parents, who 
gravely kept looking straight before them, 
chanced to cast a beaming glance on me; but 
was evidently startled at perceiving that I was 
without a shadow, and, hiding her lovely face in 
her veil, and holding down her head, passed 
silently on. 

This was past all endurance. Tears streamed 
from my eyes; and, with a heart pierced through 
and through, I once more took refuge in the 
shade. I leaned against the houses for support, 
and reached home at a late hour, worn out with 
fatigue. ; 

I passed a sleepless night. My first care the 
following morning was to devise some means of 
discovering the man in the gray cloak. Perhaps 
I might succeed in finding him, and how fortu- 
nate if he should be as ill satisfied with his bar- 
gain as I was with mine! 

I desired Bendel to be sent for, who seemed to 
possess some tact and ability. I minutely de- 
scribed to him the individual who possessed a 
treasure without which life itself was rendered a 
burden to me. I mentioned the time and the 
place at which I had seen him, named all the 
persons present, and gave him full particulars. 

He departed, and returned late and melan- 
choly. None of Mr. John’s servants, none of his 
guests (and Bendel had spoken to them all), had 


46 


Tv 


Peter Schlemthl 


the slightest recollection of the man in the gray 
cloak. The new telescope was still there, but 
no one knew how it had come, and the tent and 
Turkey carpet were still stretched out on the 
hill. The servants boasted of their master’s 
wealth; but no one seemed to know by what 
means he had become possessed of these newly 
acquired luxuries. 

Such was the information I gained from Ben- 
del’s account; but, in spite of this unsatisfac- 
tory result, his zeal and prudence deserved and 
received my commendation. Ina gloomy mood, 
I made him a sign to withdraw. 

‘I have, sir,’’ he said, ‘‘a message to deliver 
which I received early this morning from a per- 
son at the gate, as I was proceeding to execute 
the commission in which I have so unfortunately 
failed. The man’s words were these: ‘Tell your 
master, Peter Schlemihl, he will not see me here 
again. I am about to cross the sea; a favour- 
able wind now calls all the passengers on board; 
but, in a year and a day hence, I shall have the 
honour of paying him a visit. Then, in all 
probability, I shall have a proposal to make to 
him of a very agreeable nature. Commend me 
to him most respectfully, with many thanks.’ 
I asked his name, but he said you would remem- 
ber him.” 

‘‘What sort of a person was he?”’ cried I, in 
great emotion; and Bendel described the man 
in the gray coat, feature by feature, word for 
word—in short, the very individual in search of 


47 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


whom he had been sent. ‘‘How unfortunate!”’ 
cried I bitterly; ‘“‘it was the gray man himself!” 
Scales, as it were, fell from Bendel’s eyes. ‘“‘Yes, 
it was he,”’ cried he, ‘‘undoubtedly it was he; and 
fool, madman, that I was, I did not recognise 
him—I did not, and have betrayed my master!’’ 
He then broke out into a torrent of self-reproach; 
and his distress really excited my compassion. 
I endeavoured to console him, repeatedly as- 
suring him that I entertained no doubt of his 
fidelity, and I immediately despatched him to the 
wharf, to discover, if possible, some trace of the 
extraordinary being. But on that very morn- 
ing many vessels which had been detained in 
port by contrary winds had set sail, all bound to 
different parts of the globe; and thus the gray 
man had utterly disappeared. 


II 


SOLE depository of my fearful secret, I trem- 
bled before the meanest of my attendants, whom, 
at the same time, I envied; for he possessed a 
shadow and could venture to go out in the day- 
time, while I shut myself up in my room day 
and night, and indulged in all the bitterness 
of grief. 

One individual, however, was daily piring 
away before my eyes—my faithful Bendel, who | 
was the victim of silent self-reproach, torment- 
ing himself with the idea that he had betrayed 
the confidence reposed in him by a good master, 


48 


Peter Schlemihl 


in failing to recognise the individual in quest of 
whom he had been sent, and with whom he had 
been led to believe that my melancholy fate was 
closely connected. Still, I had nothing to ac- 
cuse him of, as I recognised in the occurrence the 
mysterious character of the unknown. 

In order to leave no means untried, I one day 
despatched Bendel with a costly ring to the most 
celebrated artist in the town, desiring him to 
wait upon me. He came. Dismissing the at- 
tendants, I secured the door, placing myself op- 
posite to him, and, after extolling his art, with a 
heavy heart came to the point, first enjoining the 
strictest secrecy upon him. 

“For a person,” said I, ‘‘who most unfortu- 
nately has lost his shadow, could you paint a 
false one?”’ 

““Do you speak of the natural shadow?” 

mprecisely..so;' 

“But,” he asked, ‘‘by what awkward negli- 
gence can a man have lost his shadow?” 

‘“How it occurred,’’ I answered, ‘‘is of no con- 
sequence; but it was in this manner” (and here 
I uttered an unblushing falsehood): ‘‘he was 
travelling in Russia last winter, and one bitterly 
cold day it froze so hard that his shadow re- 
mained fixed to the ground.”’ 

“The false shadow that I might paint,” said 
the artist, ‘‘would be liable to be lost on the 
slightest movement, particularly in a person 
who, from your account, cares so little about his 
shadow. A person without a shadow should 


49 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


keep out of the sun; that is the only safe and 
rational plan.” 

He rose and took his leave, casting so pene- 
trating a look at me that I shrunk from it. I 
sank back in my chair, and hid my face in my 
hands. 

My mode of life thenceforth became some- 
what different. Itis incredible with what provi- 
dent foresight Bendel contrived to conceal my 
deficiency. Everywhere he was before me and 
with me, providing against every contingency, 
and, in cases of unlooked-for danger, flying to 
shield me with his own shadow, for he was taller 
and stouter than myself. Thus I once more 
ventured among mankind, and began to take a 
part in worldly affairs. I was compelled, in- 
deed, to affect certain peculiarities and whims; 
but in a rich man they seem only appropriate,, 
and, so long as the truth was kept concealed, I 
enjoyed all the honour and respect that gold could! 
procure. 

I now looked forward with more composure 
to the promised visit of the mysterious unknown: 
at the expiration of the year and a day. 

Even the lovely Fanny, whom I again met in: 
several places, without her seeming to recollect 
that she had ever seen me before, bestowed some: 
notice on me; for wit and understanding were 
mine in abundance now. When I spoke, I was. 
listened to; and I was at a loss to know how I 
had so easily acquired the art of commanding 
attention, and giving tone to the conversation. 


50 


Peter Schlemihl 


The impression which I perceived I had made 
upon this fair one completely turned my brain; 
and this was just what she wished. After that, 
I pursued her with infinite pains through every 
obstacle. My vanity was only intent on exciting 
hers to make a conquest of me; but although 
the intoxication disturbed my head, it failed to 
make the least impression on my heart. 

One beautiful evening I had, according to my 
usual custom, assembled a party in a garden, 
and was walking arm-in-arm with Fanny at a 
little distance from the rest of the company, and 
pouring into her ear the usual well-turned 
phrases, while she was demurely gazing on va- 
cancy, and now and then gently returning the 
pressure of my hand. The moon suddenly 
emerged from behind a cloud at our back. 
Fanny perceived only her own shadow before 
us. She started, looked at me with terror, and 
then again on the ground, in search of my 
shadow. All that was passing in her mind was 
so strangely depicted in her countenance that I 
should have burst into a loud fit of laughter had 
I not suddenly felt my blood run cold within me. 
I suffered her to fall from my arm in a fainting 
fit, shot with the rapidity of an arrow through 
the astonished guests, reached the gate, threw 
myself into the first conveyance I met with, and 
returned to the town, where this time, unfortu- 
nately, I had left the wary Bendel. He was 
alarmed on seeing me; but one word explained 
everything. Post-horses were immediately pro- 


§1 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


cured. I took with me none of my servants, 
one cunning knave only excepted, called Rascal, 
who, by his adroitness, had become very useful 
to me, and who at present knew nothing of what 
had occurred. I travelled thirty leagues that 
night, having left Bendel behind to discharge 
my servants, pay my debts, and bring me all 
that was necessary. 

When he came up with me next day, I threw 
myself into his arms, vowing to avoid such follies 
and to be more careful for the future. 

We pursued our journey uninterruptedly over 
the mountainous frontier; and not until I had 
placed this lofty barrier between myself and the 
before-mentioned unlucky town was I per- 
suaded to recruit myself, after my fatigues, in 
a little-frequented watering-place. 

In this watering-place I acted a heroic char- 
acter, badly studied; and being a novice on 
such a stage, I forgot my part before a pair of 
lovely blue eyes. 

All possible means were used by the infatuated 
parents to conclude the match. Discovery put 
an end to my usual artifices. 

The powerful emotions which once swelled my 
bosom seem now in the retrospect to be poor and 
insipid—nay, even terrible to me. 

Alas, Minna! as I wept for thee the day I lost 
thee, so do I now weep that I can no longer re- 
trace thine image in my soul. 

Am I, then, so far advanced into the vale of 
years? O fatal effects of maturity! would that 


52 a 


Peter Schlemihl 


I could feel one throb, one emotion of former 
days of enchantment—alas, not one! A soli- 
tary being, tossed on the wild ocean of life, long 
is it since I drained thine enchanted cup to the 
dregs! 

But to return to my narrative. I had sent 
Bendel to the little town with plenty of money 
to procure me a suitable habitation. He spent 
my gold profusely; and, as he expressed him- 
self rather reservedly concerning his distin- 
guished master (for I did not wish to be named), 
the good people began to form rather extraordi- 
nary conjectures. 

As soon as my house was ready for my recep- 
tion, Bendel returned to conduct me toit. We 
set out on our journey. About a league from 
the town, on a sunny plain, we were stopped by 
a crowd of people, arrayed in holiday attire for 
some festival. The carriage stopped. Music, 
bells, cannon, were heard; loud acclamations 
rang through the air. 

Before the carriage now appeared in white 
dresses a chorus of maidens, all of extraordinary 
beauty; but one of them shone in resplendent 
loveliness, and eclipsed the rest as the sun eclipses 
the stars of night. She advanced from the 
midst of her companions, and, with a lofty yet 
winning air, blushingly knelt before me, pre- 
senting on a silken cushion a wreath composed 
of laurel, olive, and roses, and saying something 
respecting majesty, love, honour, and the like, 
which I could not comprehend. But the sweet 


53 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


and silvery magic of her tones: intoxicated my 
senses and my whole, soul: .it seemed as if some 
heavenly apparition were hovering over me. 
The chorus now began to sing the praises of a 
good sovereign and the happiness of his sub- 
jects. All this, dear Chamisso, took place in 
the sun: she was kneeling two steps from me, 
and I, without a shadow, could not dart to her,. 
nor fall on my knees before the angelic being. 
Oh, what would I not now have given for a 
shadow! To conceal my shame, agony, and de- 
spair, I buried myself in the recesses of the car- 
riage. Bendel at last thought of an expedient; 
he jumped out of the carriage. I called him 
back, and gave him out of the casket I had by 
me a rich diamond coronet, which had been in- 
tended for the lovely Fanny. 

He stepped forward, and spoke in the name of 
his master, who, he said, was overwhelmed by so 
many demonstrations of respect, which he really 
could not accept as an honour—there must be 
some error; nevertheless, he begged to express 
his thanks for the good-will of the worthy towns- 
people. In the meantime, Bendel had taken the 
wreath from the cushion, and laid the brilliant 
crown in its place. He then respectfully raised 
the lovely girl from the ground, and, at a sign, 
the clergy, magistrates, and all the deputations. 
withdrew. The crowd separated to allow the 
horses to pass, and we pursued our way to the 
town at full gallop, through arches ornamented 
with flowers and branches of laurel. Salvos of 


54 


Peter Schlemihl 


artillery again were heard. The carriage stopped 
at my gate; I hastened through the crowd which 
curiosity had attracted to witness my arrival. 
Enthusiastic shouts resounded under my win- 
dows, from whence I showered gold amidst the 
people; and in the evening the whole town was 
illuminated. Still all remained a mystery to 
me, and J could not imagine for whom I had been 
taken. I sent Rascal out to make inquiry; he 
soon obtained intelligence that the good King 
of Prussia was travelling through the country 
under the name of some count; that my azde- 
de-camp had been recognised, and that he had 
divulged the secret; that, on acquiring the cer- 
tainty that I would enter their town, the peo- 
ple’s joy had known no bounds. However, as 
they perceived I was determined on preserving 
the strictest incognito, they felt how wrong they 
had been in too importunately seeking to with- 
draw the veil; but I had received them so con- 
descendingly and so graciously that they were 
sure I would forgive them. The whole affair 
was such capital entertainment to the unprin- 
cipled Rascal that he did his best to confirm 
the good people in their belief, while affecting to 
reprove them. He gave me a very comical 
account of the matter, and, seeing that I was 
amused by it, actually endeavoured to make a 
virtue of his impudence. 

Shall I own the truth? My vanity was flat- 
tered by having been mistaken for our revered 
sovereign. I ordered a banquet to be got ready 


55 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


for the following evening, under the trees before 
my house, and invited the whole town. The 
mysterious power of my purse, Bendel’s exer- 
tions, and Rascal’s ready invention, made the 
shortness of the time seem as nothing. 

The guests arrived, and were presented to 
me. The word majesty was now dropped, but 
with the deepest respect and humility I was 
addressed as the count. What could I do? I 
accepted the title, and from that moment I was 
known as Count Peter. In the midst of all this 
festivity, my soul pined for one individual. She 
came late—she who was the empress of the 
scene, and wore the emblem of sovereignty on 
her brow. 

She modestly accompanied her parents, and 
seemed unconscious of her transcendent beauty. 

The Ranger of the Forests, his wife and 
daughter, were presented to me. I was at no 
loss to make myself agreeable to the parents, 
but before the daughter I stood like a guilty 
schoolboy, incapable of speaking a _ single 
word. 

At length I hesitatingly entreated her to hon- 
our my banquet by presiding at it—an office for 
which her rare endowments pointed her out as 
admirably fitted. With a blush and an expres- 
sive glance, she entreated to be excused; but, 
in still greater confusion than herself, I respect- 
fully begged her to accept the homage of the 
first and most devoted of her subjects; and one 
glance of the count was the same as a command 


56 


Peter Schlemihl © 


to the guests, who vied with one another in 
acting up to the spirit of the noble host. 

In her person majesty, innocence, and grace, 
in union with beauty, presided over this joyous 
banquet. Minna’s happy parents were elated 
by the honours conferred upon their child. As 
for me, I abandoned myself to all the intoxica- 
tion of delight: I sent for all the jewels, pearls, 
and precious stones still left to me—the product 
of my fatal wealth—and, filling two vases, I 
placed them on the table, in the name of the 
Queen of the banquet, to be divided among her 
companions and the remainder of the ladies. 

I ordered gold in the meantime to be showered 
down without ceasing among the happy mul- 
titude. ; 

Next morning, Bendel told me in confidence 
that the suspicions he had long entertained of 
Rascal’s honesty were now reduced to a cer- 
tainty; he had embezzled many bags of gold ° 
the day before. 

“‘Never mind,” said I; ‘“‘let him enjoy his 
paltry booty. J like to spend it; why should 
not he? Yesterday he, and all the newly en- 
gaged servants whom you had hired, served me 
honourably, and cheerfully assisted me to enjoy 
the banquet.” 

No more was said on the subject. Rascal re- 
mained at the head of my domestics. Bendel 
was my friend and confidant; he had by this 
time become accustomed to look upon my wealth 
as inexhaustible, without seeking to inquire into 


57 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


its source. He entered into all my schemes, 
and effectually assisted me in devising methods 
of spending my money. 

The magnificence of my banquet, and my de- 
portment on the occasion, had but strength- 
ened the credulous townspeople in their previous 
belief. 

It appeared soon after, from accounts in the 
newspapers, that the whole history of the King 
of Prussia’s fictitious journey originated in mere 
idle report. Buta king I was, anda king I must 
remain by all means—and one of the richest and 
most royal, although people were at a loss to 
know where my country was situated. Mean- 
while, however, I remained simply Count Peter. 

In the midst of my really princely magnifi- 
cence and profusion, which carried all before it, 
my own style of living was very simple and re- 
tired. I had made it a point to observe the 
strictest precaution; and with the exception 
of Bendel no one was permitted, on any pre- 
tence whatever, to enter my private apartment. 
As,long as the sun shone, I remained shut up 
with him; the Count was then said to be deeply 
occupied in his closet. The numerous couriers 
whom I kept in constant attendance about mat- 
ters of no importance were supposed to be the 
bearers of my despatches. I received company 
only in the evening under the trees of my gar- 
den, or in my saloons, after Bendel’s assurance 
of their being carefully lighted. 

Minna was in truth an amiable and excellent 


58 


Peter Schlemihl ° 


maiden; her whole soul was wrapped up in me, 
and in her lowly thoughts of herself she could 
not imagine how she had deserved a single 
thought from me. She returned love for love 
with all the full and youthful fervour of an in- 
nocent heart; her love was a true woman’s love, 
with all the devotion and total absence of self- 
ishness which is found only in woman; she lived 
but in me, her whole soul being bound up in 
mine, regardless of what her own fate might be. 

At one moment I would resolve to confess all 
to her; then I would determine to fly forever; 
then I would break out into a flood of bitter tears, 
and consult Bendel as to the means of meeting 
her again in the forester’s garden. 

At times I flattered myself with great hopes 
from the approaching visit of the unknown, but 
then wept again as I saw how it must end in dis- 
appointment. I had made a calculation of the 
day fixed on by the fearful being for our inter- 
view; for he had said in a year and a day, and 
I depended on his word. 

The parents were worthy old people, devoted 
to their only child; and our mutual affection 
was a circumstance so overwhelming that they 
knew not how to act. They had never dreamed 
for a moment that the Count could bestow a 
thought on their daughter; but such was the 
case—he loved and was beloved. The pride of 
the mother might not have led her to consider 
such an alliance quite impossible, but so extrava- 
gant an idea had never entered the contempla- 


29 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


tion of the sounder judgment of the old man. 
Both were satisfied of the sincerity of my love, 
and could but send up prayers to Heaven for the 
happiness of their child. 

To her I declared that I was not what I seemed 
—that although a rich, I was an unspeakably 
miserable, man—that a curse was on me, which 
must remain a secret, although the only one be- 
tween us—yet that I was not without a hope of 
its being removed—that this poisoned every 
hour of my life—that I should plunge her with 
me into the abyss—her, the light and joy, the 
very soul of my existence. Then she wept be- 
cause I was unhappy. Oh! Minna was all love 
and tenderness. To save me one tear, she 
would gladly have sacrificed her life. Yet she 
was far from comprehending the full meaning 
of my words. She still looked upon me as some 
proscribed prince or illustrious exile; and her 
vivid imagination had invested her lover with 
every lofty attribute. 

One day I said to her, ‘‘Minna, the last day of 
next month will decide my fate, and perhaps 
change it for the better; if not, I would sooner 
die than render you miserable.”’ 

She laid her head on my shoulder to conceal 
her tears. ‘‘Should thy fate be changed,” she 
said, ‘‘L only wish to know that thou art happy; 
if thy condition is an unhappy one, I will share 
it with thee, and assist thee to support it.” 

“Minna, Minna!” I exclaimed, ‘‘recall those 
rash words—those mad words which have es- 


60 


Peter Schlemihl 


caped thy lips! Didst thou know the misery 
and curse—didst thou know who—what—thy 
lover Seest thou not, my Minna, this 
convulsive shuddering which thrills my whole 
frame, and that there is a secret in my breast 
which you cannot penetrate?”’ She sank sob- 
bing at my feet, and renewed her vows. 

Next evening I went again to the forester’s 
garden. I had wrapped myself closely up in my 
cloak, slouched my hat over my eyes, and ad- 
vanced toward Minna. As she raised her head 
and looked at me, she started involuntarily. 
The apparition of that dreadful night in which 
I had been seen without a shadow was now 
standing distinctly before me—it was she her- 
self. Had she recognised me? She was silent 
and thoughtful. I felt an oppressive load at 
my heart. I rose from my seat. She laid her 
head on my shoulder, still silent andin tears. I 
went away. 

I now found her frequently weeping. I be- 
came more and more melancholy. Her parents 
were happy beyond expression. The eventful 
day approached, threatening and heavy, like a 
thundercloud. All the evening preceding it, I 
could scarcely breathe. I had carefully filled 
a large chest with gold, and sat down in sheer 
despair to await the appointed time—the twelfth 
hour. 

It struck. I remained with my eyes fixed on 
the hand of the clock, counting the seconds—the 
minutes—which pierced my heart like daggers. 


61 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


I started at every sound. Finally, daylight 
appeared. The leaden hours went on. Morning 
—evening—night came. Hope was fast fading 
away as the hand advanced. It struck eleven 
—no one appeared; the last minutes, at length, 
the first and last stroke of the twelfth hour died 
away. I sank back in my bed in an agony of 
tears. In the morning I should, shadowless as 
I was, claim the hand of my beloved Minna. 
Toward daybreak a heavy sleep closed my 
eyes. 


III 


It was yet early, when I was suddenly awak- 
ened by voices in hot dispute in my antechamber. 
I listened. Bendel was forbidding Rascal to 
enter my room, but he swore he would receive 
no orders from his equals, and insisted on forcing 
his way. The faithful Bendel reminded him 
that, if such words reached his master’s ears, 
he would turn him out of an excellent place. 
Rascal threatened to strike him if he persisted 
in’ refusing his entrance. 

By this time, having half dressed myself, I 
angrily threw open the door, and addressing 
myself to Rascal, inquired what he meant by 
such disgraceful conduct. He drew back a 
.couple of steps, and coolly answered: ‘‘Count 
Peter, may I beg most respectfully that you will 
‘favour me with a sight of your shadow? The 
sun is now shining brightly in the court below.” 


62 


Peter Schlemihl 


I stood as if struck by a thunderbolt, and for 
some time was unable to speak. At. last | asked 
him how a servant could dare to behave so to- 
ward his master. He interrupted me by saying, 
quite coolly: ‘‘A servant may be a very hon- 
ourable man, and unwilling to serve a shadow- 
less master. I request my dismissal.” 

I felt that I must adopt a softer tone, and re- 
plied, ‘‘But, Rascal, my good fellow, who can 
have put such strange ideas into your head? 
How can you imagine CoN 

He again interrupted me in the same tone— 
‘“People say you have no shadow. In short, let 
me see your shadow, or give me my dismissal.”’ 

Bendel, pale and trembling, but more collected 
than myself, made a sign tome. I had recourse 
to the all-powerful influence of gold. But even 
gold had lost its power. Rascal threw it at my 
feet. ‘‘From a shaddéwless man,” he said, ‘‘I 
will take nothing.” 

Turning his back upon me, and putting on his 
hat, he then slowly left the room, whistling a 
tune. I stood, with Bendel, as if petrified, gaz- 
ing after him 

With a deep sigh and a heavy heart, I now 
prepared to keep my engagement, and to appear 
in the forester’s garden like a criminal before his 
judge. I entered by the shady arbour, which 
had received the name of Count Peter’s arbour, 
where we had appointed to meet. The mother 
advanced with a cheerful air; Minna sat fair 
and beautiful as the early snow of autumn 


63 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


& 
reposing on the departing flowers, soon to be 
dissolved and lost in the cold stream. 

The ranger, with a written paper in his hand, 
was walking up and down in an agitated man- 
ner, and struggling to suppress his feelings—his 
usually unmoved countenance being flushed one 
moment, and the next perfectly pale. He came 
forward as I entered, and in a faltering voice 
requested an interview with me. The path by 
which I followed him led to an open spot in the 
garden, where the sun was shining. I sat down. 
A long silence ensued, which even the good 
mother herself did not venture to break. The 
ranger, in an agitated manner, paced up and 
down with unequal steps. At last he stood still, 
and glancing over the paper he held in his hand, 
he said, addressing me with a penetrating look, 
‘Count Peter, do you know one Peter Schle- 
mihl?” Iwas silent. ~ 

‘““A man,” he continued, ‘‘of excellent char- 
acter and extraordinary endowments.” 

He paused for an answer. 

‘“‘And supposing I myself were that very 
man?” I queried. 

“You!” he exclaimed passionately; ‘‘he has 
lost his shadow!”’ 

‘‘Oh, my suspicion is true!” cried Minna; “I 
have long known it—he has no shadow!”’ And 
she threw herself into her mother’s arms, who, 
convulsively clasping her to her bosom, re- 
proached her for having, to her hurt, so long 
kept such a secret. But, like the fabled Are 


64 


Peter Schlemihl 


thusa, her tears, as from a fountain, flowed the 
more abundantly, and her sobs increased at my 
approach. 

‘“‘And so,”’ said the ranger fiercely, ‘‘ you have 
not scrupled, with unparalleled shamelessness, 
to deceive both her and me. You pretended 
to love her, forsooth!—her whom you have re- 
duced to the state in which you now see her. 
See how she weeps!—oh, shocking, shocking!” 

By this time I had lost all presence of mind, 
and answered confusedly, ‘‘After all, it is but a 
shadow, a mere shadow, which a man can do 
very well without; and, really, it is not worth 
while to make all this fuss about such a trifle.”’ 
Feeling the groundlessness of what I was saying, 
I ceased, and no one vouchsafed a reply. At 
last I added, ‘‘ What is lost to-day may be found 
to-morrow.”’ 

““Be pleased, sir,’ continued the ranger, in 
great wrath—‘‘be pleased to explain how you 
have lost your shadow.” 

Here again an excuse was ready: ‘‘A boor of 
a fellow,” said I, ‘‘one day trod so rudely on my 
shadow that he tore a large hole init. I sent it 
to be repaired—for gold can do wonders—and 
yesterday I expected it home again.” 

‘“Very well,’”” answered the ranger. “‘You 
are a suitor for my daughter’s hand, and so are 
others. As a father, I am bound to provide for 
her. I will give you three days to seek your 
shadow. Return to me in the course of that 
time with a well-fitted shadow, and you shall re- 


65 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


ceive a hearty welcome; otherwise, on the fourth 
day—remember, on the fourth day—my daugh- 
ter becomes the wife of another.” 

I attempted to say a word to Minna; but, 
sobbing more violently, she clung still closer to 
her mother, who made a sign for me to with- 
draw. I obeyed—and now the world So ual 
shut out from me forever. 

Having escaped from the affectionmtn care of 
Bendel, I wandered wildly through the neigh- 
bouring woods and meadows. Drops of an- 
guish fell from my brow; deep groans burst 
from my bosom; frenzied despair raged within 
me. 

I knew not how long this had lasted, when I 
felt myself seized by the sleeve on a sunny heath. 
I stopped and, looking up, beheld the gray- 
coated man, who appeared to have run himself 
out of breath in pursuing me. He immediately 
began: ‘“‘I had,” said he, ‘‘appointed this day; 
but your impatience anticipated it. All, how- 
ever, may yet be right. Take my advice—re- 
deem your.shadow, which is at your command, 
and return immediately to the ranger’s garden, 
where you will be well received, and all the past 
will seem a mere joke. As for Rascal—who has 
betrayed you in order to pay his addresses to . 
Minna—leave him to me; he is a fit subject 
for me.” 

I stood like one in a dream. “This day?” 
I considered again. He was right—I had made 
a mistake of a day. I felt in my bosom for the 


66 


Peter Schlemihl 


purse. He perceived my intention, and drew 
back. 

‘‘No, Count Peter, the purse is in good hands 
—pray keep it.” I gazed at him with looks of 


astonishment and inquiry. ‘“‘I beg only a trifle 
as a token of remembrance. Be so good as to 
sign this memorandum.” On the parchment, 


which he held out to me, were these words: ‘‘By 
virtue of these presents, to which I have ap- 
pended my signature, I hereby bequeath my 
soul to the holder, after its natural separation 
from my body.” 

I gazed in mute astonishment alternately at 
the paper and at the gray unknown. In the 
meantime, he had dipped a new pen in a drop of 
blood which was issuing from a scratch in my 
hand just made by a thorn. He presented it 
to me. ‘‘Who are you?” at last I exclaimed. 
““What can it signify?’’ he answered; “‘do you 
not perceive who I am? A poor devil—a sort 
of scholar and philosopher, who obtains but 
poor thanks from his friends for his admirable 
arts, and whose only amusement on earth 
consists in his small experiments. But just 
sign this; to the right, exactly below—Peter 
Schlemihl.”’ 

I shook my head, and replied, ‘‘Excuse me, 
sir; I cannot sign that.” 

‘‘Cannot!’’ he exclaimed; ‘‘and why not?’’ 

‘Because it appears to me a hazardous thing 
to exchange my soul for my shadow.” 

‘‘Hazardous!’’ he exclaimed, bursting into a 


67 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


loud laugh. ‘‘And, pray, may I be allowed to 
inquire what sort of a thing your soul is?—have 
you ever seen it?—and what do you mean to do 
with it after your death? You ought to think 
yourself fortunate in meeting with a customer 
who, during your life, in exchange for this in- 
finitely minute quantity, this galvanic principle, 
this polarised agency, or whatever other foolish 
name you may give it, is willing to give you 
something substantial—in a word, your own 
identical shadow, by virtue of which you will 
obtain your beloved Minna, and arrive at the 
accomplishment of all your wishes.. Or do you 
prefer giving up the poor young girl to the power 
of that contemptible scoundrel, Rascal? Nay, 
you shall behold her with your own eyes. Come 
here, I will lend you a magic cap (he drew some- 
thing out of his pocket), and we will enter the 
ranger’s garden unseen.” 

But I considered the past as irrevocable, my 
own misery as inevitable, and, turning to the 
gray man, I said: ‘‘I have exchanged my shadow 
for this very extraordinary purse, and I have 
sufficiently repented it. For Heaven’s sake, let 
the transaction be declared null and void!” 
He shook his head, while his countenance as- 
sumed an expression of the most sinister cast. 
I continued: ‘‘I will make no exchange what- 
ever, even for the sake of my shadow, nor will I 
sign the paper. As for the incognito visit you 
propose, it would afford you far more entertain- 
ment than it could possibly give me. Accept 


68 


Peter Schlemihl 


my excuses, therefore, and, since it must be so, 
let us part.”’ 

‘‘T am sorry, Mr. Schlemihl, that you thus ob- 
stinately persist in rejecting my friendly offer. 
Perhaps another time I may be more fortu- 
nate. Farewell! May we shortly meet again! 
But, @ propos, allow me to show you that I do 
not undervalue my purchase, but preserve it 
carefully.”’ 

So saying, he drew my shadow out of his. 
pocket. Shaking out its folds cleverly, he 
stretched it out at his feet in the sun—so that 
he stood between two obedient shadows, his 
own and mine, which was compelled to follow 
and comply with his every movement. 

On again beholding my poor shadow after so 
long a separation, and seeing it degraded to so 
vile a bondage at the very time that I was so 
terribly in want of it, my heart was ready to 
burst, and I wept bitterly. The detested wretch 
stood exulting over his prey, and unblushingly 
renewed his proposal. ‘“‘One stroke of your pen, 
and the unhappy Minna is rescued from the 
clutches of the villain Rascal, and transferred 
to the arms of the high-born Count Peter— 
merely a stroke of your pen!”’ 

My tears broke out with renewed violence; 
but I turned away from him, and made a sign 
for him to be gone. 

Alone on the wild heath, I disburdened my 
heart of an insupportable load by giving free 
vent to my tears. But I saw no bounds, no 


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Masterpieces of Fiction 


relief, to my surpassing wretchedness. Thus I 
passed three melancholy days. 

On the morning of the fourth I found myself 
on a sandy plain, basking in the rays of the sun, 
and sitting on a fragment of rock; for it was 
sweet to enjoy the genial warmth of which I 
had been so long deprived. Despair still preyed 
on my heart. Suddenly a slight sound startled 
me; I looked round, prepared to fly, but saw 
noone. On the sunlit sand before me flitted the 
shadow of a man not unlike my own; and, 
wandering about alone, it seemed to have lost 
its master. This sight powerfully excited me. 
“*Shadow!”’ thought I, ‘‘art thou in search of 
thy master? In me thou shalt find him.” And 
I sprang forward to seize it, fancying that, could 
I succeed in treading so exactly in its traces as 
to step in its footmarks, it would attach itself 
to me, and in time become accustomed to me, 
and follow all my movements. 

The shadow, as I moved, took to flight, and I 
began a hot chase after the airy fugitive, ex- 
cited solely by the hope of being delivered from 
my present dreadful situation: the bare idea 
inspired me with fresh strength and vigour. 

The shadow fled toward a distant wood, among 
_ whose shades I must necessarily have lost it. 
Seeing this, my heart beat wild with fright; my 
ardour increased, and lent wings to my speed. 
I was evidently gaining on the shadow—I came 
nearer and nearer—I was within reach of it, 
when it suddenly stopped and turned toward 


7° 


Peter Schlemihl 


me. Like a lion darting on its prey, I made a 
powerful spring, and fell unexpectedly upon a 
hard substance. Then followed, from an in- 
visible hand, the most terrible blows in the ribs 
that any one ever received. The effect of my 
terror made me endeavour convulsively to strike 
and grasp at the unseen object before me. The 
rapidity of my motions brought me to the ground, 
where I found myself lying stretched out with a 
man under me, whom [I held tight, and who now 
became visible. 

The whdle affair was now manifest. The man 
had undoubtedly possessed the bird’s nest which 
communicates its charm of invisibility to its 
possessor, though not equally so to his shadow; 
and this nest he had thrown away. I looked all 
round, and soon discovered the shadow of this 
invisible nest. I sprang toward it, and was for- 
tunate enough to seize the precious booty, and 
immediately became invisible. 

Ardently desiring to return to the ranger’s, 
anxiety hastened my steps. Unseen, I met some 
peasants coming from the town; they were talk- 
ing of me, of Rascal, and of the ranger. I 
would not stay to listen to their conversation, 
but proceeded on. My bosom thrilled with ex- 
pectation as I entered the ranger’s garden. At 
this moment I heard something like a hollow 
laugh which caused.me involuntarily to shudder. 

Suddenly my head was, as it were, enveloped 
in a mist. I looked up, and oh, horror! the 
gray-coated man was at my side, peering into 


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Masterpieces of Fiction 


my face with a satanic grin. He had extended 
over my head the magic cap that he wore. His 
shadow and my own were lying together at his 
feet in perfect amity. He kept twirling in his 
hand the well-known parchment with an air of 
indifference; and while the ranger, absorbed in 
thought and intent upon his paper, paced up 
and down the arbour, my tormentor confiden- 
tially leaned toward me, and whispered: ‘‘So, 
Mr. Schlemihl, you have at length accepted my 
invitation; and here we sit, ‘two heads under 
one hood,’ as the saying is. Well, well! all in 
good time. But now you can return me my 
bird’s. nest—you have no further use for it, 
and I am sure you are too honourable a man to 
withhold it from me. No need of thanks, I as- 
sure you; I had infinite pleasure in lending it. 
to you. I am still of opinion that you ought to 
redeem your shadow and claim your bride (for 
it is yet time); and as to Rascal, he shall dangle 
at a rope’s end—no difficult matter, so long as 
we can find a bit. As a mark of friendship, I 
will give you my cap into the bargain.” 

The mother now came out with Minna. Her 
father took her hand, and addressed her in the 
most affectionate manner: 

““My own dear, good child—my Minna—will 
act reasonably, and not afflict her poor old father, 
who only wishes to make her happy. A suitor 
has appeared for you in the person of a man who 
does not fear the sun—an honourable man— 
no prince indeed, but a man worth millions of 


72 


——a eee 


Peter Schlemihl 


ducats, a man, too, who will make my dear child 
happy—nay, do not oppose me—be my own 
good, dutiful child—allow your loving father to 
provide for you; dry up those tears. Promise 
to bestow your hand on Mr. Rascal. Speak, my 
child; will you not?” 

Minna could scarcely summon strength to 
reply that she had now no longer any hopes or 
desires on earth, and that she was entirely at 
her father’s disposal. Rascal was, therefore, im- 
mediately sent for, and entered with his usual 
forwardness; but Minna in the meantime had 
swooned away. 

My detested companion looked at me indig- 
nantly, and whispered, ‘‘Can you endure this? 
Have you no blood in your veins?” He in- 
stantly pricked my finger, which bled. ‘Yes, 
positively,’ he exclaimed, ‘‘ you have some blood 
left! Come, sign.” The parchment and pen 
were in my hand—— 


IV 


I KNOW not whether to ascribe it to excite- 
ment of mind, exhaustion of physical strength 
(for, during the last few days, I had scarcely 
tasted anything), or the antipathy I felt to the 
society of my fiendish companion, but, just as I 
was about to sign the fatal paper, I fell into a 
deep swoon, and remained for a long time as if 
dead. The first sounds which greeted my ear 
on recovering my consciousness were those of 


73 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


cursing and imprecation. I opened my eyes— 
it was dusk; my hateful companion was over- 
whelming me with reproaches: ‘‘Is not this be- 
having like an old woman? Come, rise up, and 
finish quickly what you were going to do. Or 
perhaps you have changed your mind, and 
prefer to lie there groaning?”’ 

He continued unceasingly in the same tone, 
uttering constant sarcasms about gold and shad- 
ows, till I was completely bewildered. 

To fly from him was impossible. I wended 
my way through the empty streets toward my 
own house, which I could scarcely recognise— 
the windows were broken to pieces, no light was 
visible, the doors were shut, and the bustle of 
domestics had ceased. My companion burst 
into a loud laugh. “Yes, yes,” said he, ‘‘you 
see the state of things: however, you will find 
your friend Bendel at home. He will have a 
fine story to tell! So I wish you a very good 
night—may we shortly meet again!’’ 

I had repeatedly rung the bell, when at last 
a light appeared, and Bendel inquired from 
within who was there. The poor fellow could 
scarcely contain himself at the sound of my 
voice. The door flew open, and we were locked 
in each other’s arms. I found him sadly 
changed; he was looking ill and feeble. TI, too, 
was altered; my hair had become quite gray. 
He conducted me through the desolate apart- 
ments to an inner room, which had escaped 
the general wreck. After partaking of some 


74 


Peter Schlemihl 


refreshment, we seated ourselves. He then told 
me how the mob, at Rascal’s instigation, had as- 
sembled violently before the house, broken the 
windows, and, by all sorts of excesses, com- 
pletely satiated their fury. Thus had they 
treated their benefactor. My servants had fled 
in all directions. The police had banished me 
from the town as a suspicious character, and 
granted me an interval of twenty-four hours to 
leave the district. Bendel added many par- 
ticulars respecting Rascal’s wealth and mar- 
riage. This villain, it seems—who was the author 
of all the measures taken against me—became 
possessed of my secret nearly from the beginning, 
and, tempted by the love of,money, had sup- 
plied himself with a key to my chest, and from 
that time had been laying the foundation of his 
present wealth. Bendel related all this with 
many tears, and wept for joy that I was once 
more safely restored to him, after all his fears 
and anxieties for me. In me, however, such a 
state of things only awoke despair. 

My dreadful fate now stared me in the face 
in all its gigantic and unchangeable horror. 
The source of tears was exhausted within me; 
no groans escaped my breast; but, with cool 
indifference, I bared my unprotected head to 
the blast. ‘‘Bendel,” said I, ‘‘you know my 
fate; this heavy visitation is a punishment for 
my early sins: but as for thee, my innocent 
friend, I can no longer permit thee to share my 
destiny. I will depart this very night—saddle 


us 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


me a horse—I will set out alone. Remain here, 
Bendel—I insist upon it: there must be some 
chests of gold still left in the house—take them; 
they are thine. I shall be a restless and solitary 
wanderer on the face of the earth; but, should 
better days arise, and fortune once more smile 
propitiously on me, then I will not forget thy 
steady fidelity; for, in hours of deep distress, 
thy faithful bosom has been the depository of 
my sorrows.’ With a bursting heart, the 
worthy Bendel prepared to obey this last com- 
mand of his master; for I was deaf to all his ar- 
guments and blind to his tears. My horse was 
brought—I pressed my weeping friend to my 
bosom—threw myself into the saddle, and, under 
the friendly shades of night, quitted this sepul- 
chre of my existence, indifferent which road my 
horse should take. Henceforth, on this side the 
grave, I had neither wishes, hopes, nor fears. 


After a short time I was joined by a traveller 
on foot, who, after walking for a while by the 
side of my horse, observed that, as we both 
seemed to be travelling the same road, he would 
beg my permission to lay his cloak on the horse’s. 
_back behind me, to which I silently assented. 
He thanked me with easy politeness for this 
trifling favour, praised my horse, and then took 
occasion to extol the happiness and the power of 
the rich, and fell, I scarcely know how, into a 
sort of conversation with himself, in which I 
merely acted the part of listener. He unfolded 


76 


Peter Schlemihl 


his views of human life and of the world, and, 
touching on metaphysics, demanded an answer 
from that cloudy science to the question of ques- 
tions—the answer that should solve all mysteries. 
He deduced one problem from another in a very 
lucid manner, and then proceeded to their solu- 
tion. I listened with pleasure to this eloquently 
gifted man, who diverted my attention from my 
own sorrows to the speaker; and he would have 
secured my entire acquiescence if he had ap- 
pealed to my heart as well as to my judgment. 

In the meantime the hours had passed away, 
and morning had already dawned imperceptibly 
in the horizon. Looking up, I shuddered as I 
beheld in the east all those splendid hues that 
announce the rising sun. At this hour, when 
all natural shadows are seen in their full propor- 
tions, not a fence or a shelter of any kind could 
I descry in this open country—and I was not 
alone! I cast a glance at my companion, and 
shuddered again—it was the man in the gray 
coat himself! He laughed at my surprise, and, 
without giving me time to speak, said, ‘* You see, 
according to the fashion of this world, mutual 
convenience binds us together for a time; there 
is plenty of time to think of parting. The road 
nere along the mountain, which perhaps has es- 
caped your notice, is the only one that you can 
prudently take; into the valley you dare not 
descend—the path over the mountain would but 
reconduct you to the town which you have left. 
My road, too, lies this way. I perceive you 


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Masterpieces of Fiction 


change colour at the rising sun—I have no ob- 
jection to letting you have the loan of your 
shadow during our journey, and in return you. 
may not be indisposed to tolerate my society. 
You now have no Bendel, but I will act for him. 
I regret that you are not over-fond of me; that 
need not, however, prevent you from accepting 
my poor services. The devil is not so black as 
he is painted. Yesterday you provoked me, I 
own; but now that is all forgotten, and you 
must confess I have succeeded in beguiling the 
wearisomeness of your journey. Come, take 
your shadow, and make a trial of it.” 

The sun had risen, and we were meeting with 
passengers; so I reluctantly assented. With a 
smile, he immediately let my shadow glide down 
to the ground, and I beheld it take its place by 
that of my horse and gaily trot along with me. 
My feelings were anything but pleasant. I rode 
through groups of country people, who respect- 
fully made way for the well-mounted stranger. 
Thus I proceeded, occasionally stealing a side- 
long glance with a beating heart from my horse 
at the shadow once more my own, but now, alas! 
accepted as a loan from a‘ stranger, or rather'a 
fiend. He moved on carelessly at my side, 
whistling a song. He being on foot, and I on 
horseback, the temptation to hazard a silly proj- 
ect occurred to me; so, suddenly turning my 
bridle, I set spurs to my horse, and at full gallop 
struck into a by-path. My shadow, on the sud- 
den movement of my horse, glided away, and 


78 


Peter Schlemihl 


stood on the road quietly awaiting the approach 
of its legal owner. I was obliged to return 
abashed toward the gray man; who very coolly 
finished his song, and, with a laugh, set my 
shadow to rights again, reminding me that it 
was at my option to have it irrevocably fixed to 
me, by purchasing it on just and equitable 
terms. ‘‘I hold you,” said he, ‘‘by the shadow; 
you seek in vain to get rid of me: A rich man 
like you requires a shadow, unquestionably; 
you only are to blame for not having seen this 
sooner.” 

I now continued my journey on the same 
road; every convenience and even luxury of life 
was mine; I moved about in peace and freedom, 
for I possessed a shadow, though a borrowed 
one; and all the respect due to wealth was 
paid to me. But a deadly disease preyed on 
my heart. My extraordinary companion never 
stirred from my side, and tormented me with 
constant assurances that a day would most cer- 
tainly come, when, if it were only to get rid of 
him, I should gladly comply with his terms, and 
redeem my shadow. I stood in awe of him; I 
had placed myself in his power. Since he had 
effected my return to the pleasures of the world, 
which I had resolved to shun, he had the perfect 
mastery of me. His eloquence was irresistible, 
and at times I almost thought he was in the 
right. On one point, nevertheless, I was im- 
movable: since I had sacrificed my love for 
Minna, and thereby blighted the happiness of 


79 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


my whole life, I would not now, for all the shad- 
ows in the universe, be induced to sign away my 
soul to this being. 

One day we were sitting by the entrance of a 
cavern, much visited by strangers who ascended 
the mountain: the rushing noise of a subter- 
ranean torrent resounded from the fathomless 
abyss, the depths of which exceeded all calcu- 
lation. He was, according to his favourite cus- 
tom, employing all the powers of his lavish 
fancy, and all the charm of the most brilliant 
colouring, to depict to me what I might effect 
in the world by virtue of my purse, when once 
I had. recovered my shadow. 

“You seem to forget,’ said I, ‘‘that I toler- 
ate your presence only on certain conditions, 
and that I am to retain perfect freedom of 
action.”’ 

‘You have but to command, and I depart,” 
was all his reply. ; 

The threat was familiar to me; I was silent. 
He then began to fold up my shadow. I 
turned pale, but allowed him to continue. 
A long: silence ensued, which he was the 
first to break: 

““T will go. Only allow me to inform you how 
you may at any time recall me whenever you 
have a mind to see your most humble servant. 
You have only to shake your purse; the sound 
of the gold will bring me to you in an instant. 
In this world, every one consults his own ad- 
vantage; you see I have thought of yours, and 


80 


Peter Schlemihl 


clearly confer upon you a new power. Oh, this 
purse! it would still prove a powerful bond 
between us, had the moth begun to devour your 
shadow.—But enough: you hold me by my 
gold, and may command your servant at any 
distance. You know that I can be very ser- 
viceable to my friends; and that the rich are my 
peculiar care—this you have observed. As to 
your shadow, allow me to say you can redeem 
it on only one condition.” 

Recollections of former days came over me; 
and I hastily asked him whether he had ever 
obtained Mr. Thomas John’s signature. 

He smiled, and said, ‘‘It was by no means 
necessary from so excellent a friend.” 

“Where is he? For God’s sake tell me! I 
insist upon knowing!”’ 

With some hesitation, he put his hand into 
his pocket, and drew out, by the hair of the head, 
the altered and pallid form of Mr. John, whose 
livid lips uttered the awful words, ‘‘ Justo ju- 
dicio Det, gudicatus sum; justo judicio Dei, con- 


demnatus sum’’—‘‘By the just judgment of 
God, I am judged; by the just judgment of 
God, I am condemned.’ I was horror-struck; 


and, instantly hurling the jingling purse into the 
abyss, I exclaimed: ‘‘Wretch! in the name of 
Heaven, I conjure you to be gone! Away from 
my sight! Never appear before me again!” 
With a dark expression on his countenance, he 
arose, and immediately vanished behind the 
huge rocks which surrounded the place. 


81 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


V 


I was now left alike without gold and without 
a shadow; but a heavy load was taken from 
my breast, and I felt cheerful. Had not my 
Minna been irrecoverably lost to me, or even 
had I been perfectly free from self-reproach 
on her account, I felt that happiness might 
yet have been mine. At present, I was lost 
in doubt as to my future course. I examined 
my pockets, and found I had a few gold 
pieces still left, which I counted with feelings 
of great satisfaction. I had left my horse at 
the inn, and was ashamed to return, or, at all 
events, I must wait till the sun had set, which 
at present was high in the heavens. I laid 
myself down under a shady tree, and fell into 
a peaceful sleep. 

When I opened my eyes the sun was visible in 
the east: I must have slept the whole night. 
I looked upon this as a warning not to return to 
the inn, and, resigning myself to Providence, I 
decided on taking a by-road that led through 
the wooded declivity of the mountain. I never 
once cast a glance behind me; nor did it ever 
occur to me to return, as I might have done, to 
Bendel, whom I had left in affluence. My pres- 
ent garb was very humble—consisting of an old 
black coat I had formerly worn at Berlin—and 
which, by some chance, was the first I had put 
my hand on before setting out on this journey— 
a travelling-cap, and an old pair of boots. I 


82 


Peter Schlemihl 


cut down a knotted stick in memory of the spot, 
and commenced my pilgrimage. 

In the forest I met an aged peasant, who gave 
me a friendly greeting, and with whom I en- 
tered into conversation, requesting, as a trav- 
eller desirous of information, some particulars 
relative to the road, the country, and its inhabi- 
tants, the productions of the mountain, and the 
like. He replied to my various inquiries with 
readiness and intelligence. At last we reached 
the bed of a mountain-torrent, which had laid 
waste a considerable tract of the forest; I in- 
wardly shuddered at the idea of the open sun- 
shine. I suffered the peasant to go before me. 
In the middle of the very place which I dreaded 
so much, he suddenly stopped, and turned back 
to give me an account of this inundation. In- 
stantly perceiving that I had no shadow, he 
broke off abruptly, and exclaimed, {‘How is 
this? You have no shadow!” 

“‘Alas, alas!” said I, ‘‘in a long and serious 
illness, I had the misfortune to lose my hair, my 
nails, and my shadow. Look, good father, al- 
though my hair has grown again, it is quite 
white, and, at my age, my nails are still very 
short, and my poor shadow seems to have left 
me, never to return.”’ 

‘“Ah!”’ said the old man, shaking his head, ‘‘no 
shadow! that was, indeed, a terrible illness, sir.”’ 

But he did not resume his narrative; and, at 
the very first cross-road we came to, he left me 
without uttering a syllable. Fresh tears flowed 


83 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


from my eyes, and my cheerfulness had fled. 
With a heavy heart, I travelled on, avoiding all 
society. I plunged into the deepest shades of 
the forest; and often, to avoid a sunny tract of 
country, I waited for hours till every human 
being had left it, and I could pass it unobserved. 
In the evenings I took shelter in the villages. 
I bent my steps to a mine in the mountains, 
where I hoped to meet with work underground; 
for aside from the fact that my present situation 
compelled me to provide for my own support, I 
felt that only incessant and laborious occupia- 
tion could divert my mind from dwelling on 
painful subjects. A few rainy days assisted me 
materially on my journey; but it was to the no 
small detriment of my boots, the soles of which 
were better suited to Count Peter than to the 
poor foot-traveller. I was soon barefoot, and a 
new purchase must be made. The following 
morning I began an earnest search in a market- 
place, where a fair was being held. I sawin one 
of the booths new and second-hand boots set out 
for sale. I was a long time selecting and bar- 
gaining; I much wished to have a new pair, but 
was frightened at the extravagant price, and so 
was obliged to content myself with a second- 
hand pair, still pretty good and strong, which 
the beautiful fair-haired youth who kept the 
booth handéd over to me with a cheerful smile, 
as he wished me a prosperous journey. I went 
on, and left the place immediately by the north- 
ern gate. 


84 


Peter Schlemihl 


I was so lost in my own thoughts that I walked 
along scarcely knowing how or where. I was 
calculating the chances of my reaching the mine 
by the evening, and considering how I should 
introduce myself. I had not gone two hundred 
paces when I perceived that I was not in the 
right road. I looked around, and found myself 
in a wild-looking forest of ancient firs, where, 
apparently, the stroke of the axe had never been 
heard. A few steps more brought me amid huge 
rocks covered with moss and saxifragous plants, 
between which whole fields of snow and ice were 
extended. The air wasintensely cold. I looked 
round, and the forest had disappeared behind 
me; a few steps more, and there was the still- 
ness of death itself. The icy plain on which I 
stood stretched to an immeasurable distance, 
and a thick cloud rested upon it; the sun was 
of a red blood-colour at the verge of the horizon; 
the cold was insupportable. I could not imag- 
ine what had happened tome. The benumbing 
frost made me quicken my pace. I heard a 
distant sound of waters; and, at one step more, 
I stood on the icy shore of some ocean. Innu- 
merable droves of seals hurried past me, and 
plunged into the waves. I continued my way 
along this coast, and again met with rocks, 
plains, birch and fir forests, and yet only a few 
minutes had elapsed. It was now intensely hot. 

‘I looked about, and suddenly found myself 
amidst some fertile rice-fields and mulberry- 
trees. Sitting down under their shade, I found 


85 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


by my watch that it was just a quarter of an 
hour since I left the village market. I fancied 
it was a dream; but no, I was indeed awake, as 
I felt by the experiment of biting my tongue. I 
closed my eyes in order to collect my scattered 
thoughts. Presently I heard unintelligible words. 
uttered in a nasal tone, and I beheld two Chi- 
nese, whose Asiatic physiognomies were not to 
be mistaken, even had their costume not be- 
trayed their origin. They were addressing me 
in the language and with the salutations of 
their country. I arose and drew back a couple 
of steps. They had disappeared; the landscape 
was entirely changed; the rice-fields had given 
place to trees and woods. JI examined some of 
the trees and plants around me, and ascer- 
tained such of them as I was acquainted with 
to be productions of the southern part of Asia. 
I made one step toward a particular tree, and 
again all was changed. I now moved on like’ a 
recruit at drill, taking slow and measured steps, 
and gazing, with astonished eyes, at the wonder- 
ful variety of regions, plains, meadows, moun- 
tains, steppes, and sandy deserts which passed 
in succession before me. I had now no doubt 
that I had seven-league boots on my feet. 

I fell on my knees in silent gratitude, shedding 
tears of thankfulness, for I now saw clearly what 
was to be my future condition. Shut out by 
early sins from all human society, I was offered . 
amends for the privation of Nature herself, 
whom I had ever loved. The earth was granted 


86 


Peter Schlemihl 


me as a rich garden; the knowledge of her 
operations was to be the study and object of my 
life. Rising, I took a hasty survey of this new 
field, where I hoped afterward to reap a rich 
harvest. 

I stood on the heights of Thibet: the sun I 
had lately beheld in the east was now sinking in 
the west. I traversed Asia from east to west 
and thence passed into Africa, which I curiously 
examined at repeated visits in all directions. As 
I gazed on the ancient pyramids and temples 
of Egypt I descried, in the sandy deserts near 
Thebes of the hundred gates, the caves where 
Christian hermits dwelt of old. 

My determination was instantly fixed: here 
should be my future dwelling. I chose one of 
the most secluded, but roomy, comfortable, and 
inaccessible to the jackals. 

I stepped over from the pillars of Hercules to 
Europe; and, having taken a survey of its 
northern and southern countries, I passed by 
the north of Asia, on the polar glaciers, to Green- 
land and America, visiting both parts of this 
continent; and the winter, which was already 
at its height in the south, drove me quickly 
back from Cape Horn to the north. I waited 
_ till daylight had risen in the east of Asia, and 
then, after a short rest, continued my pilgrimage. 
I followed, in both the Americas, the vast chain 
of the Andes, once considered the loftiest on 
our globe. I stepped carefully and slowly from 
one summit to anothcr, somctimes over snowy 


87 


Masterpieces of Fiction - 


heights, sometimes over flaming volcanoes, often 
breathless from fatigue. At last I reached St. 
Elias’s mountain, and sprang over Behring’s 
Straits into Asia; I followed the eastern coast - 
in its various windings, carefully observing which 
of the neighbouring isles was accessible to me. 
From the peninsula of Malacca my boots carried 
me to Sumatra, Java, Bal, and Lombok. I 
made many attempts—often with danger, and 
always unsuccessfully—to force my way over 
the numerous little islands and rocks with which - 
this sea is studded, wishing to find a northwest 
passage to Borneo and other islands of the 
Archipelago. 

In making a visit to Europe, it was my care 
to provide myself with the articles of which I 
stood most in need. First of all a drag, to act on 
my boots; for I had experienced the inconven- 
ience of these whenever I wished to shorten my 
steps and examine surrounding objects more 
fully. A pair of slippers to go over the boots 
served the purpose effectually; and from that 
time I carried two pairs about me, because I 
frequently cast them off from my feet in my 
botanical investigations, without having time 
to pick them up when threatened by the ap- 
proach of lions, men, or hyenas. My excellent 
watch, owing to.the short duration of my move- 
ments, was also an admirable chronometer on 
these occasions. I wanted, besides, a sextant, 
a few philosophical instruments, and some books. 
To purchase these things I made several un- 


88 


Peter Schlemihl 


willing journeys to London and Paris, choosing 
a time when I could be hid by the favouring 
clouds. As all my ill-gotten gold was exhausted, 
I carried over from Africa some ivory, which is 
. there so plentiful, in payment of my purchases 
—taking care, however, to pick out the smallest 
teeth, in order not to overburden myself. I 
had thus soon provided myself with all that I 
wanted, and now entered on a new mode of life 
as a student—wandering over the globe—meas- 
uring the height of the mountains, and the tem- 
perature of the air and of the springs—observ- 
ing the manners and habits of animals—inves- 
tigating plants and flowers. From the equator 
to the pole, and from the new world to the old, 
I was constantly engaged in repeating and com- 
paring my experiments. 


One day, as I was gathering lichens and algz 
on the northern coast, with the drag on my 
boots, a bear suddenly made his appearance, and 
was stealing toward me round the corner of a 
rock. After kicking off my slippers, as I thought, 
I attempted to step across to an island, by means 
of a‘rock that projected from the waves in 
the intermediate space, and that served as a 
stepping-stone. I reached the rock safely with 
one foot, but instantly fell into the sea with the 
other, one of my slippers having inadvertently 
remained on. The cold was intense, and I es- 
-caped this imminent peril at the risk of my life. 
On coming ashore, I hastened to the Libyan 


89 


Masterpieces of Fiction - 


sands to dry myself in the sun, but the heat af- 
fected my head so much, that, in a fit of illness, 
I staggered back to the north. In vain I sought 
relief by change of place—hurrying from east 
to west, and from west to east—now in climes 
of the south, now in those of the north; some- 
times I rushed into daylight, sometimes into the 
shades of night. I know not how long this 
lasted. A burning fever raged in my veins; 
with extreme anguish, I felt my senses leaving 
me. Suddenly, by an unlucky accident, I trod 
upon some one’s foot, and in return received a 
blow that laid me senseless. 

On recovering my senses I found myself lying 
comfortably in a good bed, which, with many 
other beds, stood in a spacious and handsome 
apartment. Some one was watching by me; 
people seemed to be walking from one bed to 
another; they came to mine, and spoke of me 
as Number Twelve. On the wall, at the foot of 
my bed—it was no dream, for I distinctly read 
it—on a black marble tablet was inscribed my 
name, in large letters of gold: 


PETER SCHLEMIHL 


Underneath were two rows of letters in smaller 
characters, which I was too feeble to connect to- 
gether, and I closed my eyes again. 

I now heard something read aloud, in which I 
distinctly noted the words, ‘‘ Peter Schlemihl,”’ 
but could not gather the full meaning. I sawa 


go 


Peter Schlemihl 


man of benevolent aspect, and a very beautiful 
female dressed in black, standing near my bed; 
their countenances were not unknown to me, 
but in my weak state I could not remember 
who they were. Some time elapsed, and I began 
to regain my strength. I was called Number 
Twelve, and, from my long beard, was supposed 
to be a Jew, but was not the less carefully nursed 
on that account. No one seemed to perceive 
that I was destitute of a shadow. My boots, I 
was assured, together with everything found 
on me when I was brought here, were in safe 
keeping, and would be given up to me on 
my restoration to health. This place was 
called the SCHLEMIHLIUM. The daily reci- 
tation I had heard was an exhortation to 
pray for Peter Schlemihl as the founder and 
benefactor of this institution. The benevolent- 
looking man whom I had seen by my bed- 
side was Bendel; the beautiful lady in black 
was Minna. 

I had been enjoying the advantages of the 
Schlemihliim without being recognised, learn- 
ing, further, that I was in Bendel’s native town, 
where he had employed a part of my once 
unhallowed gold in founding a hospital in my 
name, under his superintendence, and that its 
unfortunate inmates daily pronounced blessings 
on me. Minna had become a widow: an un- 
happy lawsuit had deprived Rascal of his life, 
and Minna of the greater part of her property. 
Her parents were no more, and here she dwelt 


gi 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


in widowed piety, wholly devoting herself to 
works of mercy. 

One day, as she stood by the side of Number 
Twelve’s bed with Bendel, he said to her, ‘‘ Noble 
lady, why expose yourself so frequently to this 
unhealthy atmosphere? Has fate dealt so 
harshly with you as to render you desirous of 
death?”’ 

“By no means, Mr. Bendel,’ she replied; 
‘“‘since I have wakened from my long dream, all 
has gone well with me. I now neither wish for 
death nor fear it, and think on the future and 
on the past with equal serenity. Do you not 
also feel an inward satisfaction in thus paying 
a pious tribute of gratitude and love. to your old 
master and friend?”’ ‘ 

‘‘Thanks be to God, I do, noble lady,” said 
he. “‘Ah, how wonderfully has everything 
fallen out! How thoughtlessly have we sipped 
joys and sorrows from the full cup now drained 
to the last drop; and we might fancy the past 
a mere prelude to the real scene for which we 
now wait armed,by experience. How different 
has been the reality! Yet, let us not regret the 
past, but rather rejoice that we have not lived 
in vain. As respects our old friend also, I have 
a firm hope that it is now better with him than 
formerly.’ 

‘“‘I trust so, too,’’ answered Minna; and, so 
saying, she passed by me, and they departed. 

This conversation made a deep impression on 
me, and I hesitated whether I should discover 


92 


Peter Schlemihl 


myself or depart unknown. At last I decided, 
and, asking for pen and paper, wrote as follows: 

“‘Matters are indeed better with your old 
friend than formerly. He has repented, and 
his repentance has led to forgiveness.”’ 

I was now able to rise, for I felt much stronger. 
The keys of a little chest near my bed were given 
me; in it I found all my effects. I put on my 
clothes; fastened my botanical case round me 
—wherein, with delight, I found my northern 
lichens all safe—put on my boots, and leaving 
my note on the table, left the gates, and was 
speedily far advanced on the road to Thebes. 

In my home I found everything exactly in 
the order in which I had left it. I returned by 
degrees, as my increasing strength allowed me, 
to my old occupations and usual mode of life, 
from which I had been kept back a whole year 
by my fall into the Polar Ocean. And this, dear 
Chamisso, is the life I am still leading. 

So far as my boots would carry me, I have 
observed and studied our globe and its conforma- 
tion, its mountains and temperature, the atmos- 
phere in its various changes, the influences of 
the magnetic power; in fact, I have studied all 
living creation—and most especially the king- 
dom of plants—more profoundly than, any one 
of our race. I have arranged all the facts in 
proper order, to the best of my ability, in dif- 
ferent works. The consequences deducible from 
these facts, and my views respecting them, | 
have succinctly recorded in various essays and 


93 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


dissertations. I have settled the geography of 
the interior of Africa and of the Arctic regions, 
of the interior of Asia and of its eastern coast. 
My Historia stirpium plantarum utriusque orbis 
is an extensive fragment of my Systema nature. 
Besides increasing the number of our known 
species by more than a third, I have also con- 
tributed somewhat to the natural system of 
plants and to a knowledge of their geography. 
I am now deeply engaged on my Fauna,-and 
shall take care to have my manuscripts sent to 
the University of Berlin before my decease. 

I have selected thee, my dear Chamisso, to be 
the guardian of my wonderful history, thinking 
that, when I have left this world, it may afford 
valuable instruction to the living. As for thee, 
Chamisso, if thou wouldst live amongst thy 
fellow-creatures, learn to value thy shadow more 
than gold; if thou wouldst only live to thyself 
and thy nobler part—in this thou needest no 
counsel. 


94 


THE MINISTER’S BLACK VEIL 


BY 


NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 


THE sexton stood in the porch of Milford 
meeting-house, pulling busily at the bell-rope. 
The old people of the village came stooping 
along the street. Children, with bright faces, 
tripped merrily beside their parents, or mimicked 
a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of their 
Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked side- 
long at the pretty maidens, and fancied that 
the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than 
on week days. When the throng had mostly 
streamed into the porch, the sexton began to 
ynll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend 
Mr. Hooper’s door. The first glimpse of the 
clergyman’s figure was the signal for the bell to 
cease its summons. 

“But what has good Parson Hooper got upon 
his face?” cried the sexton in astonishment. 

All within hearing immediately turned about, 
and beheld the semblance of Mr. Hooper, 
pacing slowly his meditative way toward the 
meeting-house. With one accord they started, 
expressing more wonder than if some strange 
minister were coming to dust the cushions of 
Mr. Hooper’s pulpit. 


95 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


‘‘Are you sure it. is our parson?” inquired 
Goodman Gray of the sexton. ) 

‘“Of a certainty: it is goods Mig wiiigene:,,” 
replied the sexton. ‘‘He was to have exchanged 
pulpits with Parson Shute, of Westbury; but 
Parson Shute sent to excuse himself yesterday, 
having to preach a funeral sermon.” 

The cause of so much amazement may appear 
sufficiently slight. Mr. Hooper, a gentlemanly 
person, of about thirty, though still a bachelor, 
was dressed with due clerical neatness, as if a 
careful wife had starched his band, and. brushed 
the weekly dust from his Sunday’s garb. 
There was but one thing remarkable in his ap- 
pearance. Swathed about his forehead, and 
hanging down over his face, so low as to be 
shaken by his breath, Mr. Hooper had on a 
black veil. On a nearer view it seemed to 
consist of two folds of crape which entirely 
concealed his features except the mouth and 
chin, but probably did not intercept his sight 
further than to give a darkened aspect to all 
living and inanimate things. With this gloomy 
shade before him, good Mr. Hooper walked on- 
ward at a slow and quiet pace, stcoping some- 
what and looking on the gryound, as is customary 
with abstracted men, yet nodding kindly to 
those of his parishioners who still waited on the 
meeting-house steps. But so wonder-struck were 
they that his greeting hardly met with a return. 

‘‘T can’t really feel as if good Mr. Hooper’s face 
was behind that piece of crape,”’ said the sexton. 


96 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


“*T don’t like it,’’ muttered an old woman, as 
she hobbled into the meeting-house. ‘‘He has 
changed himself into something awful, only 
by hiding his face.”’ 

“Our parson has gone mad!’’ cried Goodman 
Gray, following him across the threshold. 

A rumour of some unaccountable phenomenon 
had preceded Mr. Hooper into the meeting- 
house, and set all the congregation astir. Few 
_could refrain from twisting their heads toward 
the door; many stood upright, and turned 
directly about; while several little boys clam- 
bered upon the seats, and came down again | 
with a terrible racket. There was a general 
bustle, a rustling of the women’s gowns and 
shuffling of the men’s feet, greatly at variance 
with that hushed repose which should attend 
the entrance of the minister. But Mr. Hooper 
appeared not to notice the perturbation of his 
people. He entered with an almost noiseless 
step, bent his head mildly to the pews on each 
side, and bowed as he passed his oldest par- 
ishioner, a white-haired great-grandsire, who 
occupied an arm-chair in the centre of the aisle. 
It was strange to observe how slowly this 
venerable man became conscious of something 
singular in the appearance of his pastor. He 
seemed not fully to partake of the prevailing 
wonder till Mr. Hooper had ascended the stairs, 
and showed himself in the pulpit, face to face 
with his congregation, except for the black 
veil, That mysterious cmblem was never once 


97 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


withdrawn. It shook with his measured breath 
as he gave out the psalm; it threw its obscurity 
between him and the holy: page as he read the 
Scriptures; and while he prayed, the veil lay 
heavily on his uplifted countenance. Did 
he seek to hide it from the dread Being whom 
he was addressing?”’ 

Such was the effect of this simple piece of 
crape, that more than one woman of delicate 
nerves was forced to leave the meeting-house. 
Yet perhaps the pale-faced congregation was 
almost as fearful a sight to the minister, as his 
black veil to them. 

Mr. Hooper had the reputation of a good 
preacher, but not an energetic one: he strove to 
win his people heavenward by mild, persuasive 
influences, rather than to drive them thither by 
the thunders of the Word. The sermon which 
he now delivered was marked by the same 
characteristics of style and manner as the 
general series of his pulpit oratory. But there 
was something, either in the sentiment of the 
discourse itself, or in the imagination of the 
auditors, which made it greatly the most power- 
ful effort that they had ever heard from their 
pastor’s lips. It was tinged, rather more 
darkly than usual, with the gentle gloom of 
Mr. Hooper’s temperament. The subject had 
reference to secret sin, and those sad mysteries 
which we hide from our nearest and dearest, and 
would fain conceal from our own consciousness, 
even forgetting that the Omniscient can detect 


98 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


them. A subtle power was breathed into his 
words. Each member of the congregation, the 
most innocent girl, and the man of hardened 
breast, felt as if the preacher had crept upon 
them, behind his awful veil; and discovered their 
hoarded iniquity of deed or thought. Many 
spread their clasped hands on their bosoms. 
There was nothing terrible in what Mr. Hooper 
said—at least, no violence; and yet, with every 
tremor of his melancholy voice, the hearers 
quaked. An unsought pathos came hand in 
hand with awe. So sensible were the audience 
of some unwonted attribute in their minister 
that they longed for a breath of wind to blow 
aside the veil, almost believing that a stran- 
ger’s visage would be discovered, though the 
form, gesture, and voice were those of Mr. 
Hooper. 

At the close of the services, the people hurried 
out with indecorous confusion, eager to com- 
municate their pent-up amazement, and con- 
scious of lighter spirits the moment they lost 
sight of the black veil. Some gathered in little 
circles, huddled closely together, with their 
mouths all whispering in the centre; some went 
‘homeward alone, wrapt in silent meditation; 
some talked loudly, and profaned the Sabbath 
day with ostentatious laughter. A few shook 
their sagacious heads, intimating that they 
could penetrate the mystery; while one or two 
affirmed that there was no mystery at all, but 
only that Mr, Hooper’s eyes were so weakened 


99 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


by the midnight lamp as to require a shade. 
After a brief interval, forth came good Mr. 
Hooper also, in the rear of his flock. Turning 
his veiled face from one group to another, he 
paid due reverence to the hoary heads, saluted 
the middle-aged with kind dignity as their 
friend and spiritual guide, greeted the young 
with mingled authority and love, and laid his 
hands on the little children’s heads to bless 
them. Such was always his custom on the 
Sabbath day. Strange and bewildered looks 
repaid him for his courtesy. None, as on for- 
mer occasions, aspired to the honour of walking 
by their pastor’s side. Old Squire Saunders, 
doubtless by an accidental lapse of memory, 
neglected to invite Mr. Hooper to his table, where 
the good clergyman had been wont to bless the 
food, almost every Sunday since his settlement. 
He returned, therefore, to the parsonage, and, 
at the moment of closing the door, was observed 
to look back upon the people, all of whom had 
their eyes fixed upon the minister. A sad 
smile gleamed faintly from beneath the black 
veil, and flickered about his mouth, glimmering 
as he disappeared. 

‘‘How strange,” said a lady, ‘‘that a simple 
black veil, such as any woman might wear on 
her bonnet, should become such a terrible thing 
on Mr. Hooper’s face!”’ 

‘‘Something must surely be amiss with Mr. 
Hooper’s intellect,’’ observed her husband, the 
physician of the village. ‘“‘But the strangest 


I0oO 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


part of the affair is the effect of this vagary, 
even on a sober-minded man like myself. The 
black veil, though it covers only our pastor’s 
face, throws its influence over his whole person, 
and makes him ghostlike from head to foot. 
Do you not feel it so?”’ 

“Truly do I,” replied the lady; ‘‘and I would 
not be alone with him for the world. I wonder 
he is not afraid to be alone with himself!”’ 

‘“‘Men sometimes are so,”’ said her husband. 

The afternoon service was attended with 
similar circumstances. At its conclusion, the 
bell tolled for the funeral of a young ladv. 
The relatives and friends were assembled in the 
house, and the more distant acquaintances stood 
about the door, speaking of the good qualities 
of the deceased, when their talk was interrupted 
by the appearance of Mr. Hooper, still covered 
with his black veil. It was now an appropriate 
emblem. The clergyman stepped into the 
room where the corpse was laid, and bent over 


the coffin, to take a last farewell of his deceased 


parishioner. As he stooped, the veil hung 
straight down from his forehead, so that, if her 
eyelids had not been closed forever, the dead 
maiden might have seen his face. Could Mr. 
Hooper be fearful of her glance, that he so 
hastily caught back the black veil? A person 
who watched the interview between the dead 
and living, scrupled not to affirm, that, at 
the instant when the clergyman’s features were 
disclosed, the corpse had slightly shuddered 


Io!l 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


rustling the shroud and muslin cap, though 
the countenance retained the composure of 
death. A _ superstitious old woman was the 
only witness of this prodigy. From the coffin 
Mr. Hooper passed into the chamber of the 
mourners, and thence to the head of the stair-, 
case, to make the funeral prayer. It was a 
tender and heart-dissolving prayer, full of 
sorrow, yet so imbued with celestial hopes that 
the music of a heavenly harp, swept by the 
fingers of the dead, seemed faintly to be heard 
among the saddest accents of the minister. 
The people trembled, though they but darkly 
understood him when he prayed that they, and 
himself, and all of mortal race, might be ready, 
as he trusted this young maiden had been, for 
the dreadful hour that should snatch the veil 
from their faces. The bearers went heavily 
forth, and the mourners followed, saddening all 
the street, with the dead before them, and Mr. 
Hooper in his black veil behind. 

‘““Why do you look back?’ said one in the 
procession to his partner. 

“Ll had) a fancy,” replied “shey "ita 4 ae 
minister and the maiden’s spirit were walking 
hand in hand.” 

‘“‘And so had I, at the same moment,” said 
the“other."i: 

That night, the handsomest couple in Milford 
village were to be joined in wedlock. Though 
reckoned a melancholy man, Mr. Hooper had 
a placid cheerfulness for such occasions, which 


I02 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


often excited a sympathetic smile where livelier 
merriment would have been thrown away. 
There was no quality of his disposition which 
made him more beloved than this. The com- 
pany at the wedding awaited his arrival with 
impatience, trusting that the strange awe, 
which had gathered over him throughout the 
-day, would now be dispelled. But such was 
not the result. When Mr. Hooper came, the 
first thing that their eyes rested on was the same 
horrible black veil, which had added deeper gloom 
to the funeral, and could portend nothing but 
evil to the wedding. Such was its immediate 
effect on the guests that a cloud seemed to 
have rolled duskily from beneath the black 
crape, and dimmed the light of the candles. 
The bridal pair stood up before the minister. 
But the bride’s cold fingers quivered in the 
tremulous hand of the bridegroom, and her 
deathlike paleness caused a whisper that the 
maiden who had been buried a few hours before 
was come from her grave to be married. If 
ever another wedding were so dismal, it was 
that famous one where they tolled the wedding 
knell. After performing the ceremony, Mr. 
Hooper raised a glass of wine to his lips, wishing 
happiness to the new-married couple in a strain 
of mild pleasantry that ought to have brightened 
the features of the guests, like a cheerful gleam 
from the hearth. At that instant, catching a 
glimpse of his figure in the looking-glass, the 
black veil involved his own spirit in the horror 


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Masterpieces of Fiction — 


with which it overwhelmed all others. His 
frame shuddered, his lips grew white, he spilt 
the untasted wine upon the carpet, and rushed 
forth into the darkness. For the Earth, too, 
had on her Black Veil. 

The next day, the whole village A Milford 
talked of little else than Parson MHooper’s 
black veil. That, and the mystery concealed 
behind it, supplied a topic for discussion between 
acquaintances meeting in the street, and good 
women gossiping at their open windows. It 
was the first item of news that the tavern- 
keeper told to his guests. The children babbled 
of it on their way to school. One imitative 
little imp covered his face with an old black 
handkerchief, thereby so affrighting his play- 
mates that the panic seized himself, and he well- 
nigh lost his wits by his own waggery. 

It was remarkable that of all the busybodies 
and impertinent people in the parish, not one 
ventured to put the plain question to Mr. 
Hooper, wherefore he did this thing. Hitherto, 
whenever there appeared the slightest call for 
such interference, he had never lacked advisers, 
nor shown himself averse to be guided by their 
judgment. If he erred at all, it was by so 
painful a degree of self-distrust, that even the 
mildest censure would lead him to consider an 
indifferent action as a crime. Yet, though so 
well acquainted with this amiable weakness, 
no individual among his parishioners chose to 
make the black veil a subject of friendly re- 


104 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


monstrance. There was a feeling of dread, nci- 
ther plainly confessed nor carefully conccaled, 
which caused each to shift the responsibility upon 
another, till at length it was found expedient to 
send a deputation of the church, in order to 
deal with Mr. Hooper about the mystery, before 
it should grow into a scandal. Never did an 
embassy so ill discharge its duties. The minister 
received them with friendly courtesy, but 
became silent after they were seated, leaving 
to his visitors the whole burden of introducing 
their important business. The topic, it might 
be supposed, was obvious enough. There was 
the black veil swathed round Mr. Hooper’s 
forehead, and concealing every feature above 
his placid mouth, on which, at times, they could 
perceive the glimmering of a melancholy smile. 
But that piece of crape, to their imagination, 
seemed to hang down before his heart, the 
symbol of a fearful secret between him and 
them. Were the veil but cast aside, they 
might speak freely of it, but not till then. 
Thus they sat a considerable time, speechless, 
confused, and shrinking uneasily from Mr. 
Hooper’s eye, which they felt to be fixed upon 
them with an invisible glance. Finally, the 
deputies returned abashed to their constituents, 
pronouncing the matter too weighty to be 
handled, except by a council of the churches, if, 
indeed, it might not require a general synod. 
But there was one person in the village un- 
appalled by the awe with which the black veil 


IO5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


had impressed all besides herself. When the 
deputies returned without an explanation, or 
even venturing to demand one, she, with the 
calm energy of her character, determined to 
chase away the strange cloud that appeared to 
be settling round Mr. Hooper, every moment 
‘more darkly than before. As his plighted wife, 
it should be her privilege to know what the black 
veil concealed. At the minister’s first visit, 
therefore, she entered upon the subject with a 
direct simplicity, which made the task easier 
both for him and her. After he had seated 
himself, she fixed her eyes steadfastly upon the 
veil, but could discern nothing of the dreadful 
gloom that had so overawed the multitude: it 
was but a double fold of crape, hanging down 
from his forehead to his mouth, and slightly 
stirring with his breath. 

‘‘No,”’ said she aloud, and smiling, ‘‘there is 
nothing terrible in this piece of crape, except 
that it hides a face which I am always glad to 
look upon. Come, good sir, let the sun shine 
from behind the cloud. First lay aside your 
black veil: then tell me why you put it on.” 

Mr. Hooper’s smile glimmered faintly. 

‘‘There is an hour to come,” said he,** when 
all of us shall cast aside our veils. Take it not 
amiss, beloved friend, if I wear this piece of 
crape till then.’’ 

‘““Your words are a mystery, too,” returned 
the young lady. ‘‘Take away the veil from 
them, at least.’’ 


106 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


“*Elizabeth, I will,’ said he, ‘‘so far as my 
vow may suffer me. Know, then, this veil is 
a type and a symbol, and I am bound to wear it 
ever, both in light and darkness, in solitude and 
before the gaze of multitudes, and as with 
strangers, so with my familiar friends. No 
mortal eye will see it withdrawn. This dismal 
shade must separate me from the world: even 
you, Elizabeth, can never come behind it!”’ 

‘What grievous affliction hath befallen you,” 
she earnestly inquired, ‘‘that you should thus 
darken your eyes forever?” 

“If it be a sign of mourning,” replied Mr. 
Hooper, ‘‘I, perhaps, like most other mortals, 
have sorrows dark enough to be typified by a 
black veil.”’ 

“But what if the world will not believe that 
it is the type of an innocent sorrow?” urged 
Elizabeth. ‘‘Beloved and respected as you are, 
there may be whispers that you hide your face 
under the consciousness of secret sin. For the 
sake of your holy office, do away with this 
scandal!” 

The colour rose into her cheeks as she intimated 
the nature of the rumours that were already 
abroad in the village. But Mr. Hooper’s mildness 
did not forsake him. He even smiled again— 
that same sad smile, which always appeared like 
a faint glimmering of light, proceeding from 
the obscurity beneath the veil. 

“If I hide my face for sorrow, there is cause 
enough,’”’ he merely replied; ‘‘and if I cover it 


107 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


for secret sin, what mortal might not do the 
same?’”’ 

And with this gentle, but unconquerable 
obstinacy did he resist all her entreaties. At 
length Elizabeth sat silent. For a few moments 
she appeared lost in thought, considering, 
probably, what new methods might be tried to 
withdraw her lover from so dark a fantasy, 
which, if it had no other meaning, was perhaps 
a symptom of mental disease. Though of a 
firmer character than his own, the tears rolled 
down her cheeks. But in an instant, as it were, 
a new feeling took the place of sorrow: her 
eyes were fixed insensibly on the black veil, 
when, like a sudden twilight in the air, its 
terrors fell around her. She arose, and stood 
trembling before him. 

‘“‘And do you feel it then, at last?”’ said he 
mournfully. 

She made no reply, but covered her eyes with 
her hand, and turned to leave the room. He 
rushed forward and caught her arm. 

‘““Have patience with me, Elizabeth!” cried 
he, passionately. ‘‘Do not desert me, though 
this veil must be between us here on earth. Be 
mine, and hereafter there shall be no veil over 
my face, no darkness between our souls! It 
is but a mortal veil—it is not for eternity! O! 
you know not how lonely I am, and how fright- 
ened, to be alone behind my black veil. Do 
not leave me in this miserable obscurity for- 
ever!’ 


108 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


“Lift the veil but once, and look me in the 
face,’ said she. ; 

‘‘Never! It cannot be!’’ replied Mr. Hooper. 

““Then farewell!” said Elizabeth. 

She withdrew her arm from his grasp, and 
slowly departed, pausing at the door, to give one 
long, shuddering gaze, that seemed almost to 
penetrate the mystery of the black veil. But, 
even amid his grief, Mr. Hooper smiled to think 
that only a material emblem had separated him 
from happiness, though the horrors, which it 
shadowed forth, must be drawn darkly between 
the fondest of lovers. 

From that time no attempts were made to 
remove Mr. Hooper’s black veil, or, by a direct 
appeal, to discover the secret which it was sup- 
posed to hide. By persons who claimed a 
superiority to popular prejudice, it was reckoned 
merely an eccentric whim, such as often mingles 
with the sober actions of men otherwise rational, 
and tinges them all with its own semblance of 
insanity. But with the multitude, good Mr. 
Hooper was irreparably a bugbear. He could 
not walk the street with any peace of mind, so 
conscious was he that the gentle and timid 
would turn aside to avoid him, and that others 
would make it a point of hardihood to throw 
themselves in his way. The impertinence of 
the latter class compelled him to give up his 
customary walk at sunset to the burial-ground; 
for when he leaned pensively over the gate, 
there would always be faces behind the grave- 


109 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


stones, peeping at his black veil. <A fable went 
the rounds that the stare of the dead people drove 
him thence. It grieved him, to the very depth 
of his kind heart, to observe how the children 
fled from his approach, breaking up their merriest 
sports, while his melancholy figure was yet afar 
off. Their instinctive dread caused him to 
feel more strongly than aught else that a preter- 
natural horror was interwoven with the threads 
of the black crape. In truth, his own antipathy 
to the veil was known to be so great that he never 
willingly passed before a mirror, nor stooped to 
drink at a still fountain, lest, in its peaceful 
bosom, he should be affrighted by himself. 
This was what gave plausibility to the whispers 
that Mr. Hooper’s conscience tortured him for. 
some great crime too horrible to be entirely 
concealed, or otherwise than so obscurely 
intimated. Thus, from beneath the black veil, 
there rolled a cloud into the sunshine, an am- 
biguity of sin or sorrow, which enveloped the 
poor minister, so that love or sympathy could 
never reach him. It was said that ghost and 
fiend consorted with him there. With self- 
shudderings and outward terrors, he walked 
continually in its shadow, groping darkly within 
his own soul, or gazing through a medium that 
saddened the whole world. Even the lawless 
wind, it was believed, respected his dreadful 
secret, and never blew aside the veil. But still 
good Mr. Hooper sadly smiled at the pale visages 
of the woridly throng as he passed by. 


IIo 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


Among all it bad influences, the black veil had 
the one desirable effect, of making its wearer 
a very efficient clergyman. By the aid of his 
mysterious emblem—for there was no other 
apparent cause—he became a man of awful 
power over souls that were in agony for sin. 
His converts always regarded him with a dread 
peculiar to themselves, affirming, though but 
figuratively, that, before he brought them to 
celestial light, they had been with him behind 
the black veil. Its gloom, indeed, enabled him 
to sympathise with all dark affections. Dying 
sinners cried aloud for Mr. Hooper, and would 
not yield their breath till he appeared; though 
ever, as he stooped to whisper consolation, they 
shuddered at the veiled face so near their own. 
Such were the terrors of the black veil, even when 
Death had bared his visage! Strangers came 
long distances:to attend service at his church, 
with the mere idle purpose of gazing at his 
figure, because it was forbidden them to behold 
his face. But many were made to quake ere 
they departed! Once, during Governor Belcher’s 
administration, Mr. Hooper was appointed to 
preach the election sermon. Covered with his 
black veil, he stood before the chief magistrate, 
the council, and thé representatives, and wrought 
so deep an impression that the legislative 
measures of that year were characterised by 
all the gloom and piety of our earliest ancestral 
sway. 

In this manner Mr. Hooper spent a long life, 


15391 OF 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


irreproachable in outward act, yet shrouded in 
dismal suspicions; kind and loving, though un- 
loved, and dimly feared; a man apart from men, 
shunned in their health and joy, but ever 
summoned to their aid in mortal anguish. 
As years wore on, shedding their snows above his 
sable veil, he acquired a name throughout the 
New England churches, and they called him | 
Father Hooper. Nearly all his parishioners, 
who were of mature age when he was settled, 
had been borne away by many a funeral: he 
had one congregation in the church, and a more 
crowded one in the churchyard; and having 
wrought so late into the evening, and done his 
work so well, it was now good Father Hooper’s 
turn to rest. | 

Several persons were visible by the shaded 
candlelight, in the death chamber of the old 
clergyman. Natural connections he had none. 
But there was the decorously grave, though un- 
moved physician, seeking only to mitigate the 
last pangs of the patient whom he could not 
save. There were the -deacons, and other 
eminently pious members of his church. There, 
also, was the Reverend Mr. Clark, of Westbury, 
a young and zealous divine, who had ridden in 
haste to pray by the bedside of the expiring 
minister. There was the nurse, no hired hand- 
maiden of death, but one whose calm affection 
had endured thus long in secrecy, in solitude, 
amid the chill of age, and would not perish, 
even at the dying hour. Who, but Elizabeth! 


Ii2 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


And there lay the hoary head of good Father 
Hooper upon the death pillow, with the black 
veil still swathed about his brow, and reaching 
down over his face, so that each more difficult 
gasp of his faint breath caused it to stir. All 
through life that piece of crape had hung between 
him and the world: it had separated him from 
cheerful brotherhood and woman’s love, and 
kept him in that saddest of all prisons, his own 
heart; and still it lay upon his face, as if to 
deepen the gloom of his darksome chamber, and 
shade him from the sunshine of eternity. 

For some time previous, his mind had been 
confused, wavering doubtfully between the past 
and the present, and hovering forward, as it 
were, at intervals, into the indistinctness of the 
world to come. There had been feverish turns, 
which tossed him from side to side, and wore 
away what little strength he had. But in his 
most convulsive struggles, and in the wildest 
vagaries of his intellect, when no other thought 
retained its sober influence, he still showed an 
awful solicitude lest the black veil should slip 
aside. Even if his bewildered soul could have 
forgotten, there was a faithful woman at his 
pillow, who, with averted eyes, would have 
covered that aged face, which she had last 
beheld in the comeliness of manhood. At 
length the death-stricken old man lay quietly in 
the torpor of mental and bodily exhaustion, 
with an imperceptible pulse, and breath that 
grew fainter and fainter, except when a long, 


I13 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


deep, and irregular inspiration seemed to prelude 
the flight of his spirit. 

The minister of Westbury approached the 
bedside. 

‘“Venerable Father Hooper,’ said he, ‘‘the 
moment of your release is at hand. Are you 
ready for the lifting of the veil that shuts in 
time from eternity?”’ 

Father Hooper at first replied merely by a 
feeble motion of his head; then, apprehensive, 
perhaps, that his meaning might be doubtful, 
he exerted himself to speak. 

““Yea,’’ said he, in faint accents, *‘my soul 
hath a patient weariness until that veil be 
lifted.” 

“‘And is it fitting,’’ resumed the Reverend Mr. 
Clark, ‘‘that a man so given to prayer, of such a 
blameless example, holy in deed and thought, 
so far as mortal judgment may pronounce; is it 
fitting that a father in the church should leave 
.a shadow on his memory that may seem to 
blacken a lifesopure? I pray you, my venerable 
brother, let not this thing be! Suffer us to be 
gladdened by your triumphant aspect as you 
go to your reward. Before the veil of eternity 
be lifted, let me cast aside this black veil from 
your face!”’ 

And thus speaking, the Reverend Mr. Clark 
bent forward to reveal the mystery of so many 
years. But, exerting a sudden energy that made 
all the beholders stand aghast, Father Hooper 
snatched both his hands from beneath the bed- 


114 


The Minister’s Black Veil 


clothes, and pressed them strongly on the black 
veil, resolute to struggle if the minister of 
Westbury would contend with a dying man. 

‘‘Never!’’ cried the veiled clergyman. ‘On 
earth, never!” 

‘“‘Dark old man!” exclaimed the affrighted 
minister, ‘‘with what horrible crime upon your 
soul are you now passing to the judgment?”’ 

Father Hooper’s breath heaved; it rattled in 
his throat; but, with a mighty effort, grasping 
forward with his hands, he caught hold of life, 
and held it back till he should speak. He even 
raised himself in bed; and there he sat, shivering 
with the arms of death around him, while the 
black veil hung down, awful, at that last moment, 
in the gathered terrors of a lifetime. And yet 
the faint, sad smile, so often there, now seemed 
to glimmer from its obscurity, and linger on 
Father Hooper’s lips. 

‘“Why do you tremble at me alone?’’ cried 
he, turning his veiled face round the circle of 
pale spectators. ‘‘Tremble also at each other! 
Have men avoided me, and women shown no 
pity, and children screamed and fled, only for 
my black veil? What, but the mystery which 
it obscurely typifies, has made this piece of 
crape so awful? When the friend shows his 
inmost heart to his friend; the lover to his best 
beloved; when man does not vainly shrink 
from the eye of his Creator, loathsomely treasur- 
ing up the secret of his sin—then deem me a 
monster, for the symbol beneath which I have 


II5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


lived, and die! I look around me, and, lo! on 
- every visage a Black Veil!”’ 

While his auditors shrank from one another in 
mutual affright, Father Hooper fell back upon 
his pillow, a veiled corpse, with a faint smile 
lingering on the lips. Still veiled, they laid him 
in his coffin, and a veiled corpse they bore him 
to the grave. The grass of many years has 
sprung up and withered on that grave, the 
burial stone is moss-grown, and good Mr. 
Hooper’s face is dust; but awful is still the 
thought that.it mouldered beneath the Black 
Veil! 


116 


THE SIEGE OF BERLIN 


BY, 


ALPHONSE DAUDET 


As we went up the Champs Elysées with 
Doctor V , we gleaned the story of Paris the 
besieged from the walls shattered by shells and 
the streets torn up by grapeshot. Just before 
coming to the Place de VEtoile, the Doctor 
paused to point out to me one of the imposing 
group of mansions opposite the Arc de Triomphe. 

““Do you see,” he said, “‘the four closed win- 
dows up there on the balcony? At the begin- 
ning of August—that awful month of August, 
1870, so fraught with wreck and ruin—lI was 
called upon to attend an apoplectic case there. 
The stricken one was Colonel Jouve, a veteran 
Cuirassier of the First_ Empire. Surcharged 
with patriotic feeling and the glory of it, he had 
taken a balconied apartment in the Champs 
Elysées when the war broke out—and for what 
reason, do you imagine? To witness. the tri- 
umphal return of our troops! Poor old fellow! 
Word of Wissembourg came as he got up from 
the table. At seeing Napoleon’s name at the 
bottom of that bulletin of defeat, he fell insen- 
sible. I found the old Cuirassier prostrate upon 
the floor. His face was bloody, and he was 


117 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


senseless—as if struck with a club. On his 
feet, he would have been unusually tall; lying 
prone, he seemed gigantic. With fine features, 
splendid teeth, and curly hair, he carried his 
eighty years as if they were sixty. His grand- 
daughter knelt over him in tears. She bore 
close. resemblance to him. Side by side, they 
suggested to me two Greek medallions from the 
same die, only one was antique, earth-marked, 
its outlines slightly worn, while the other had 
all the charm of clear and fresh beauty. 

‘““The grief of this child moved me. A daugh- 
ter and granddaughter of soldicrs—her father 
was one of MacMahon’s staffi—the spectacle of 
this old man laid out in front of her-brought to 
her mind another vision not less fearful. I 
tried my best to comfort her, though really I 
had little or no hope. We had to deal with 
hemoptysis, which at eighty is almost certainly 
fatal. Three days the patient remained thus, 
in a condition of, lifelessness and torpor. In 
the interim, the news of Reichshofen came— 
recollect how oddly? Until evening, .we all be- 
lieved in a wonderful victory—twenty thousand 
Prussians wiped out, and the Crown Prince a 
prisoner. 

‘“‘T shall never be able to determine by what 
miracle or magnetic force an intimation of this 
universal rejoicing could have reached our in- 
valid. Heretofore, he had been deaf to every- 
thing about him, but that evening, on coming 
to his bedside, I beheld a new creature. His 


118 


The Siege of Berlin 


eye was bright, his speech easier, and he had 
sufficient strength to smile and stammer: 

‘““*Victory, victory.’ 

“Yes, Colonel, a great victory.’ 

‘And, as I related the details of MacMahon’s 
glorious success, I saw his face soften and be- 
come illumined. 

‘“When I was about to go his granddaughter, 
pale and sobbing, appealed to me. 

“*But he is saved,’ I said, pressing both her 
hands. 

“The poor girl had hardly enough courage to 
reply. The real Reichshofen had just been 
announced: MacMahon a fugitive, the whole 
army beaten. Our eyes met in a look of con- 
sternation; she was full of concern for her 
father, while I feared for the grandfather. This 
new shock would be too much for him; but 
what were we to do? Leave him to the enjoy- 
ment of the delusion that had restored him to 
consciousness? To do this, we must practice 
duplicity. Hastily wiping away her tears, the 
brave girl said, ‘Well then, I will deceive him,’ 
and returned to her grandfather’s room with a 
cheerful face. 

‘“What she had resolved to do was no light 
task. At first, because of his weak head, the 
old man believed everything told him with 
childish credulity. But, as he gained strength, 
his ideas became clearer. 

“To keep in touch with the manoeuvring 
of the army, despatches from the front were 


119g 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


fabricated. Pitiable it was, indeed, to see that 
charming girl poring day and night over her 
map of Germany, studding it with little flags, 
planning an entire, splendid campaign—Bazaine 
on the way to Berlin, Frossard in Bavaria, 
‘MacMahon on the Baltic Sea. In doing this 
she asked for my advice, and I helped her as 
much as I could, but in these feigned hostilities 
the grandfather was of the greatest assistance. 
During the First Empire, he had conquered 
Germany so often. He knew all the tactics 
they should employ: ‘Now they will do this. 
They should go there.’ And he was proud to 
have all his predictions fulfilled. We captured 
towns, and won battles, but never fast enough 
for the Colonel, who was insatiable. He greeted 
me with a new stratagem every day. 

‘““Mayence is taken, Doctor,’ said the young 
girl, meeting me with a pitiful smile, and through 
the door I heard the rapturous cry: 

“““We are moving, we are moving! We shall 
take Berlin in a week!’ 

“At that very moment the Prussians wanted 
but a week to enter Paris. We considered mov- 
ing to the provinces, but out there, where he 
could see the havoc made in the country, he 
would discover the truth, and I thought him 
still too weak to bear it. We decided to stay 
in town. On the first day of the siege, I called 
upon my patient with misgivings, I recollect, 
and with that heart-agony felt by all at the 
thought that the gates of Paris were closed, that 


I20 


The Siege of Berlin 


the war had reached our very walls, and that 
our suburbs and frontiers were one. 

““T found the old man elated. ‘Well, the 
siege has begun,’ he said. I looked at him in 
stupefaction. 

“““Why, Colonel, how do you know?’”’ 

“His granddaughter glanced at me, and said, 
‘Oh, yes, Doctor, it is glorious news—the siege 
of Berlin has begun.’ 

“She quietly said this while plying her needle. 
He was entirely without suspicion. The roar- 
ing of the cannon he could not hear, nor could 
he see Paris, the ill-fated, in dark demoralisa- 
tion. What he did see from the watch-tower 
of his bed helped to carry out the delusion. 
With the Arc de Triomphe outside, there were 
in the room many reminders of the First Empire. 
Portraits of marshals, engravings of battles, 
the son of Napoleon in his baby-clothes; the 
austere brackets decked with brazen battle- 
memorials, covered with Imperial relics, medals, 
bronzes; a stone from St. Helena, under a glass _ 
shade; numerous miniatures of a_ light-eyed, 
much - be-curled lady in ball dress (a yellow 
gown with leg-of-mutton sleeves); and all these 
—the brackets, Napoleon’s son, the medals, the 
yellow ladies in the gaudy straightness of the 
Empire gown, short-waisted and sashed under 
the arms—it was this environment of victorious 
warfare which made the siege of Berlin a fact 
so real to the poor Colonel! 

““Thereafter, our military movements were 


I21 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


less involved, and the taking of Berlin was 
merely a question of time. When the old man 
grew impatient with waiting, we would read 
him a letter from his son, fictitious of course, as 
nothing entered Paris, and as, since Sedan, Mac- 
Mahon’s aide-de-camp was in a German fortress. 

“Imagine, if you can, the desperation of © 
the poor girl, with no news of her father, cer- 
tain that he was in prison, necessitous, prob- 
ably sick, and still pretending to make him 
speak in hopeful letters, properly brief, of 
course, as froma soldier on duty marching 
through a subjugated country. Often, when 
the invalid suffered from excessive weakness, 
news would not come for weeks. But suddenly, 
when he was worried and sleepless, a letter 
would arrive from Germany, which she read 
merrily at his bedside, choking back her tears. 
The Colonel listened attentively, with an air of 
smiling patronage, assenting, censuring, inter- 
preting. But he outdid himself in his replies to 
his son. ‘Always remember that you are a son 
of France,’ he wrote; ‘be kind to those unfor- 
tunate people. Make the invasion no harder 
than they can bear.’ ; 

‘‘His counsel was unceasing: instructive lec- 
tures regarding the rights of others; the cour- 
tesy due to ladies—in fact, a complete guide 
to conquerors on the preservation of military 
honour. Besides this were some thoughts on 
diplomacy, and stipulations regarding the terms 
of peace to be made with the defeated. Con- 


I22 


The Siege of Berlin 


cerning the latter, he was most generous: ‘The 
indemnity of the war, but no more. Of what 
use is it to take provinces? Germany cannot 
be changed into France!’ 

“While giving these directions his voice never 
faltered, and his words evinced so much honesty 
of purpose and love of country that we were 
deeply moved. And all this time the siege 
was in progress, but not the siege of Berlin, alas! 

““The weather was at its coldest, and we were 
suffering. the heaviest bombardment, and the 
worst horrors of epidemic and famine. But 
Owing to our care, and the unwearied tenderness 
bestowed upon him, the old man’s comfort was 
never disturbed for a moment. I was even 
able to obtain white bread and fresh meat for 
him to the very end, but only for him. 

“Could anything have been more touching 
than those breakfasts of the grandfather, so 
guilelessly selfish, propped up in bed, bright and 
smiling, a napkin tucked under his chin, by him 
his granddaughter wan because of deprivation, 
directing the movements of his hands, compell- 
ing him to drink, urging him to eat the good 
things procured with such difficulty? ‘Strength- 
ened by a meal, and cheered by the warmth of 
the room, the old Cuirassier was reminded, by 
the snow which whirled past the window, to 
speak of his northern campaigns, and would tell 
us of that disastrous retreat from Russia, with 
nothing to eat but frozen biscuit and horse- 
flesh. 


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Masterpieces of Fiction 


‘**Can you imagine that, little one? We ate 
horse-flesh.’ 

‘‘Of course she could imagine it, since, for 
two months, she had eaten nothing else! 

““As he grew convalescent, our difficulties 
increased. The numbness passed from his 
senses as well as from his limbs, which made it 
all the harder for us to deceive him. On one 
or two occasions the cannonading at the Porte 
Maillot had made him start and listen like a 
horse on the battle-field; we accounted for it 
by telling him that Bazaine had just achieved a 
wonderful victory before Berlin, and what he 
had heard was the firing of salvos from the 
Invalides in honour of it. 

‘On the Thursday of Buzenval, we pushed 
his bed to the window, from which he saw some 
of the National Gyard massed upon the Avenue 
de la Grande Armée. 

‘““What soldiers are those?’ he inquired, and 
we heard him muttering, ‘Badly drilled—badly 
drilled.’ 

‘‘Nothing else was said, but we made up our 
minds to show more caution in the future. (Only, 
we did not show enough. 

‘The child met me, one evening, in great 
distress. ‘To-morrow they enter the city,’ she 
said. 

‘‘Was her grandfather’s door open then? In 
reflecting upon that evening afterwards, I have 
remembered that his face indicated great pen- 
siveness. He may accidentally have heard what 


124 


The Siege of Berlin 


we said, thinking only of the French and their 
long-looked-for return with victory perched on 
their banners:. MacMahon coming down the 
Avenue showered with flowers, and trumpets 
blowing a flourish; beside the Marshal, his own 
son; himself, on his balcony in the full uniform 
of Liitzen, saluting the torn colours and powder- 
blackened eagles ! 

‘“Poor Colonel Jouve! Probably he fancied 
that we wished to keep him from participating 
at the defile of our troops, fearing the excite- 
ment would be too much for him, and so con- 
- cealing it from him. But on the morrow, just 
as the Prussian army crept into the long road 
leading from the Porte Maillot to the Tuileries, 
the Colonel, arrayed in the battle-stained but 
glorious uniform of Milhaud’s Cuirassiers, with 
helmet and sword, quietly raised the window, 
and stepped out upon the balcony. 

“It seemed as if every effort of a fast-failing 
body and iron will had been summoned for this 
supreme moment, that he might stand to order, 
ready in harness. 

“But what met his gaze as he stood at the 
railing? Paris, a hospital; all shutters closed; 
the broad Avenue silent; flags everywhere, but 
all white, stained with the red cross of suffering, 
and no one to meet our soldiers. He may have 
thought it all a mistake for an instant. 

“But no. From behind the Arc de Triomphe 
comes the muffled sound of advancing troops, 
stepping to the measured beat of the little 


E26 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


drums of Jena, then the spikes of helmets catch 
the sunlight, and, when the Place de 1’Etoile is 
reached, the heavy tramp, tramp, of soldiers 
to the strains of Schubert’s Triumphal March 
force the shocking truth upon him. 

‘‘An awful cry broke the sorrowful silence of 
the streets—a terrible cry: 

“*To arms! To arms! . The @Peussianst: 

““The four lancers who were in the vanguard 
might have looked up and seen a tall, old man 
wave his arms, stagger, and fall. 

“Colonel Jouve had died at his post.”’ 


420 


THE PIT AND THE PENDULUM 


BY 


” 
Epcar ALLAN PoE 


I was sick—sick unto death with that long 
agony; and when they at length unbound me, 
and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses 
were leaving me. The sentence—the dread 
sentence of death—was the last of distinct 
accentuation which reached my ears. After 
that, the sound of the inquisitorial voices 
seemed merged in one dreamy indeterminate 
hum. It conveyed to my soul the idea of 
revolution—perhaps from its association in 
fancy with the burr of a mill-wheel. This, 
only for a brief period; for presently I heard no 
more. Yet, for a while, I saw; but with how 
terrible an exaggeration! I saw the lips of the 
black-robed judges. They appeared to me 
white—whiter than the sheet upon which I 
trace these words—and thin even to grotesque- 
ness; thin with the intensity of their expression 
of firmness—of immovable resolution—of stern 
contempt of human torture. I saw that the 
decrees of what to me was Fate were still issu- 
ing from those lips. I saw them writhe with 
a deadly locution. I saw them fashion the 
syllables of my name; and I shuddered because 


127 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


no sotind succeeded. I saw, too, for a few 
moments of delirious horrors, the soft and 
nearly imperceptible waving of the sable dra- 
peries which enwrapped the walls of the apart- 
ment. And then my vision fell upon the seven 
tall candles upon the table. At first they wore 
the aspect of charity, and seemed white slender 
angels. who would save me; but then, all at 
once, there came a most deadly nausea over 
my spirit, and I felt every fibre in’ my frame 
thrill as if I had touched the wire of a galvanic 
battery, while the angel forms became meaning- 
less spectres with heads of flame, and I saw that 
from them there would be no help. And then 
there stole into my fancy, like a rich musical note, 
the thought of what sweet rest there must be 
in the grave. The thought came gently and 
stealthily, and it seemed long before it attained 
full appreciation; but, just as my spirit came 
at length properly to feel and entertain it, 
the figures of the judges vanished, as if magically, 
from before me; the tall candles sank into 
nothingness; their flames went out utterly; the 
blackness of darkness supervened; all sensations 
appeared swallowed up in a mad rushing descent 
as of the soul into Hades. Then silence, and 
stillness, and night were the universe. 

I had swooned; but still will not say that all 
of consciousness was lost. What of it there 
remained, I will not attempt to define, or even 
to describe; yet all was not lost. In the deepest 
slumber—no! In delirium—no! In a swoon— 


128 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


no! In death—no! even in the grave all 1s not 
lost. Else there is no immortality for man. 
Arousing from the most profound of slumbers, 
we break the gossamer web of some dream. Yet 
in a second afterward (so frail may that web 
have been), we remember not that wes have 
dreamed. In the return to life from the*$woon, 
there are two stages; first, that of the s@fise of 
mental or spiritual; secondly, that of the sense 
of physical, existence. It seems probable that 
if, upon reaching the second stage, we could 
recall the impressions of the first, we should 
find these impressions eloquent in memories of 
the gulf beyond. And that gulf is—what? 
How at least shall we distinguish its shadows 
from those of the tomb? But if the impressions 
of what I have termed the first stage are not, at 
will, recalled, yet, after long interval, do they 
not come unbidden, while we marvel whence 
they came? He who has never swooned is 
not he who finds strange palaces and wildly 
familiar faces in coals that glow; is not he who 
beholds, floating in mid-air, the sad visions that 
the many may not view; is not he who ponders 
over the perfume of some novel flower—is not 
he whose brain grows bewildered with the mean- 
ing of some musical cadence which has never 
before arrested his attention. 

Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavours to 
remember; amid earnest struggles to .regather 
some token of the state of seeming nothingness 
into which my soul had lapsed, there have been 


129 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


moments when I dreamed of success; there have 
been brief, very brief, periods when I have con- 
jured up remembrances which the lucid reason 
of a later epoch assures me could have had 
reference only to that condition of seeming 
unconsciousness. These shadows of memory 
tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and 
bore me in silence down—down—still down— 
till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the 
mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. 
They tell, also, of a vague horror at my heart, 
on account of that heart’s unnatural stillness. 
Then comes a sense of sudden motionlessness 
throughout ‘all things; as if those who bore me 
(a ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, © 
the limits of the limitless, and paused from the 
wearisomeness of their toil. After this I call 
to mind flatness and dampness; and then all 
is madness—the madness of a memory which 
busies itself among forbidden things. 

Very suddenly there came back to my soul 
motion and sound—the tumultuous motion of 
the heart, and, in my ears, the sound -of its 
beating. Then a pause in which all is blank. 
Then again sound, and motion,- and touch—a 
tingling sensation pervading my frame. Then 
the mere consciousness of existence, without 
thought—a condition which lasted long. Then, 
very suddenly, thought, and shuddering terror, 
and earnest endeavour to comprehend my true 
state. Then a strong desire to lapse into in- 
sensibility. Then a rushing revival of soul and 


130 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


a successful effort to move. And now a full 
memory of the trial, of the judges, of the sable 
draperies, of the sentence, of the sickness, of the 
swoon. Then entire forgetfulness of all that 
followed; of all that a later day and much ear- 
nestness of endeavour have enabled me vaguely 
to recall. 

So far, I had not opened my eyes. I felt 
that I lay upon my back, unbound. I reached 
out my hand, and it fell heavily upon something 
damp and hard. There I suffered it to remain 
for many minutes, while I strove to imagine 
where and what I could be. I longed, yet dared 
not to employ my vision. I dreaded the first 
glance at objects around me. It was not that 
I feared to look upon things horrible, but that I 
grew aghast lest there should be nothing to see. 
At length, with a wild desperation at heart, I 
quickly unclosed my eyes. My worst thoughts, 


then, were confirmed. The-bleckness-of—cternal— 
night encompassed me. I struggled—fer-breath._ 


The intensity of the darkness seemed to oppress 
and stifle me. The atmosphere was intolerably 
close. I still lay quietly, and made effort to 
‘exercise my reason. I brought to mind the 
inquisitorial proceedings, and attempted from 
that point to deduce my real condition. The 
sentence had passed; and it appeared to me that 
a very long interval of time had since elapsed. 
Yet not for a moment did I suppose myself 
actually dead. Such a supposition, notwith- 
standing what we read in fiction, is altogether 


131 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


inconsistent with real existence—but where and 
in what state was I? The condemned to death, 
I knew, perished usually at the auto-da-fés, and 
one of these had been held on the very night of 
the day of my trial. Had I been remanded to 
my dungeon, to await the next sacrifice, which 
would not take place for many months? This, 
I at once saw, could not be. Victims had been 
in immediate demand. Moreover, my dungeon, 
as well as all the condemned cells at Toledo, 
had stone floors, and light was not altogether 
excluded. 

A fearful idea now ‘Suadeaee drove the blood 
in torrents upon my heart, and, for a brief 
period, I once more relapsed into insensibility. 
Upon recovering, I at once started to my feet, 
trembling convulsively in every fibre. I thrust 


a 


directions. einene pothines yet dreaded to move 
a step, lest I should be impeded by the walls of 
atomb. Perspiration burst from every pore, and 
stood in cold, big beads upon my forehead. 
The agony of suspense grew at length intolerable, 
and I cautiously moved forward, with my arms 
extended, and my eyes straining from their 
sockets in the hope of catching some faint ray 
of light. I proceeded for many paces; but still 
all was blackness and vacancy. I breathed more 
freely. It seemed evident that mine was not, 
at least, the most hideous of fates. 

And now,-as I still continued to step cautiously 
onward, there came thronging upon my recollec- 


Tze 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


tion a thousand vague rumours of the horrors 
of Toledo. Of the dungeons there had been 
strange things narrated—fables I had always 
deemed them—but yet strange, and too ghastly 
to repeat save in a whisper. Was I left to 
perish of starvation in this subterranean world 
of darkness; or what fate, perhaps even more 
fearful, awaited me? That the result would be 
death, and a death of more than customary 
bitterness, I knew too well the character of my 
judges to doubt. The mode and the hour were 
all that occupied or distracted me. 

My outstretched hands at length encountered 
some solid obstruction. It was a wall, seemingly 
of stone masonry—very smooth, slimy, and 
cold. I followed it up; stepping with all the 
careful distrust with which certain antique 
narratives had inspired me. This process, how- 
ever, afforded me no means of ascertaining the 
dimensions of my dungeon, as I might make its 
circuit and return to the point whence I set out 
without being aware of the fact—so perfectly 
uniform seemed the wall. I therefore sought 
the knife, which had been in my pocket when 
led into the inquisitorial chamber; but it was 
gone; my clothes had been exchanged for a 
wrapper of coarse serge. I had thought of 
forcing the blade in some minute crevice of the 
masonry, so as to identify my point of departure. 
The difficulty, nevertheless, was but trivial; 
although in the disorder of my fancy it seemed 
at first insuperable. I tore a part of the hem 


133 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


from the robe, and placed the fragment at full 
length, and at right angles to the wall. In 
groping my way around the prison, I could not 
fail to encounter this rag upon completing the 
circuit. So, at least, I thought; but I had not 
counted upon the extent of the dungeon, or upon 
my own weakness. The ground was moist and 
slippery. I staggered onward for some time, 
when I stumbled and fell. My excessive fatigue 
induced me to remain prostrate; and sleep soon 
overtook me as I lay. 

Upon awaking, and stretching forth an arm, I 
found beside me a loaf and a pitcher of water. 
I was too much exhausted to reflect upon this 
circumstance, but ate and drank with avidity. 
Shortly afterward I resumed my tour around 
the prison, and, with much toil, came at last 
upon the fragment of the serge. Up to the 
period when I fell I had counted fifty-two 
paces, and, upon resuming my walk, I had 
counted forty-eight more—when I arrived at 
the rag. There were in all, then, a hundred 
paces; and, admitting two paces to the yard, 
I presumed the dungeon to be fifty yards in 
circuit. I had met; however, with many angles 
in the wall, and thus I could form no guess at the 
shape of the vault, for vault I could not help 
supposing it to be. 

I had little object—certainly no hope—in 
these researches; but a vague curiosity prompted 
me to continue them. Quitting the wall, I 
resolved to cross the area of the enclosure. 


134 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


At first I proceeded with extreme caution, for 
the floor, although seemingly of solid material, 
was treacherous with slime. At length, how- 
ever, I took courage, and did not hesitate to 
step firmly—endeavouring to cross in as direct 
a line as possible. I had advanced some ten 
or twelve paces in this manner, when the rem- 
nant of the torn hem of my robe became en- 
tangled between my legs. I stepped on-it, and 
fell violently on my face. 

In the confusion attending my fall I did not 
immediately apprehend a somewhat startling 
circumstance which yet, in a few seconds after- 
ward, and while I still lay prostrate, arrested 
my attention. It was this: my chin rested upon 
the floor of the prison, but my lips and the 
upper portion of my head, although seemingly 
at a less elevation than the chin, touched nothing. 
At the same time my forehead seemed bathed 
in a clammy vapour, and the peculiar smell of 
decayed fungus arose to my nostrils. I put 
forward my arm, and shuddered to find that I 
had fallen at the very brink of a circular pit, 
whose extent, of course, I had no means of 
ascertaining at the moment. Groping about 
the masonry just below the margin, I succeeded 
in dislodging a small fragment, and let it fall 
into the abyss. For many seconds I harkened 
to its reverberations as it dashed against the 
sides of the chasm in its descent: at length there 
was a sudden plunge into water, succeeded by 
loud echoes. At the same moment there came 


135 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


a sound resembling the quick opening, and as 
rapid closing, of a door overhead, while a faint 
gleam of light flashed suddenly through the 
gloom, and as suddenly faded away. 

I saw clearly the doom which had been 
prepared for me, and congratulated myself 
upon the timely accident by which I had escaped. 
Another step before my fall, and the world had 
seen me no more. And the death just avoided 
was of that very character which I had regarded 
as fabulous and frivolous in the tales respecting 
the Inquisition. To the victims of its tyranny, 
there was the choice of death with its direst 
physical agonies, or death with its most hideous 
moral horrors. I had been reserved for the 
latter. By long suffering my nerves had been 
unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my 
own voice, and had become in every respect a 
fitting subject for the species of torture which 
awaited me. 

Shaking *‘n every limb, I groped my way 
back to the wall—resolving there to perish 
rather than risk the terror of the wells, of which 
my imagination now pictured many in various 
positions about the dungeon. In other condi- 
tions of mind I might have had courage to end 
my misery at once, by a plunge into one of these 
abysses; but now I was the veriest of cowards. 
Neither could I forget what I had read of these 
pits—that the sudden extinction of life formed 
no part of their most horrible plan. 

Agitation of the spirit kept me awake for 


136 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


many long hours; but at length I again slum- 
bered. Upon arousing I found by my side, as 
before, a loaf and a pitcher of water. A burning 
thirst consumed me, and I emptied the vessel at 
a draught. It must have been drugged—for 
scarcely had I drunk before I“e@ecame irresistibly 
drowsy. A deep sleep fell upon me—a sleep 
like that of death. How long it lasted of 
course I know not; but when once again I 
unclosed my eyes, the objects around me were 
visible. By a _ wild, sulphurous lustre, the 
origin of which I could not at first determine, I 
was enabled to see the extent and aspect of the 
prison. 

In its size I had been greatly mistaken. The 
whole circuit of its walls did not exceed twenty- 
five yards. For some minutes this fact occa- 
sioned me a world of vain trouble; vain indeed 
—for what could be of less importance, under 
the terrible circumstances which environed me, 
than the mere dimensions of my dungeon! 
But my soul took a wild interest in trifles, and 
I busied myself in endeavouring to account for 
the error I had committed in my measurement. 
The truth at length flashed upon me. In my 
first attempt at exploration I had counted 
fifty-two paces up to the period when I fell: I 
must then have been within a pace or two of the 
fragment of serge; in fact, I had nearly per- 
formed the circuit of the vault. I then slept— 
and, upon awaking, I must have returned upon 
my steps—thus supposing the circuit nearly 


137 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


double what it actually was. My confusion of 
mind prevented me from observing that I 
began my tour with -the wall to the left, and 
ended it with the wall to the right. 

I had been deceived, too, in respect to the 
shape of the enclosure. In feeling my way I 
had found many angles, and thus deduced an 
idea of great irregularity; so potent is the effect 
of total darkness upon one arousing from lethargy 
or sleep! The angles were simply those of a few . 
slight depressions, or niches, at odd intervals. 
The general shape of the prison was square. 
What I had taken for masonry seemed now 
to be iron, or some other metal, in huge plates, 
whose sutures or joints occasioned the depression. 
The entire surface of this metallic enclosure 
was rudely daubed in all the hideous and re- 
pulsive devices to which the charnel superstition 
of the monks had given rise. The figures of 
fiends in aspects of menace, with skeleton forms, 
and other more really fearful images, overspread 
and disfigured the walls. I observed that the 
outlines of these monstrosities were sufficiently 
distinct, but that the colours seemed faded and 
blurred, as if from the effects of a damp atmos- 
phere. I now noticed the floor, too, which was 
of stone. In the centre yawned the circular pit 
from whose jaws I had escaped; but it was the 
only one in the dungeon. 

All this I saw indistinctly and by much effort 
—for my personal condition had been greatly 
changed during slumber. I now lay upon my 


128 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


-back, and at full length, on a species of low 
framework of wood. To this I was securely 
bound by a long strap resembling a surcingle. 
It passed in many convolutions about my 
limbs and body, leaving at liberty only my 
head, and my left arm to such extent that I 
could, by dint of much exertion, supply myself 
with food from an earthern dish which lay by 
my side on the floor. I saw, to my horror, that 
the pitcher had been removed. I say to my 
horror—for I was consumed with intolerable 
thirst. This thirst.it appeared to be the design 
of my persecutors to stimulate—for the food 
in the dish was meat pungently seasoned. 
Looking upward, I surveyed the ceiling of 
my prison. It was some thirty or forty feet 
overhead, and constructed much as the side 
walls. In one of its panels a very singular 
figure riveted my whole attention. It was the 
painted figure of Time as he is commonly repre- 
sented, save that, in lieu of a scythe, he held 
what, at a casual glance, I supposed to be the 
pictured image of a huge pendulum, such as we 
see on antique clocks. There was something, 
however, in the appearance of this machine 
which caused me to regard it more attentively. 
While I gazed directly upward at it (for its 
position was immediately over my own), I 
fancied that I saw it in motion. In an instant 
afterwards the fancy was confirmed. Its sweep 
was brief and, of course, slow. I watched it 
for some minutes, somewhat in fear, but more 


139 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


in wonder. Wearied at length with observing 
its dull movement, I turned my eyes upon the 
other objects in the cell. 

A slight noise attracted my notice, and, 
looking to the floor, I saw several enormous rats. 
traversing it. They had issued from the well, 
which lay just within view to my right. Even 
then, while I gazed, they came up in troops,. 
hurriedly, with ravenous eyes, allured by the 
scent of the meat. From this it required much 
effort and attention to scare them away. 

It might have been half. an hour, perhaps 
even an hour (for I could take but imperfect note 
of time), before I again cast my eyes upward. 
What I then saw confounded and amazed me. 
The sweep of the pendulum had increased in 
extent by nearly a yard. As a natural con- 
sequence, its velocity was also much greater. 
But what mainly disturbed me was the idea 
that it had perceptibly descended. I now 
observed—with what horror it is needless to 
say—that its nether extremity was formed 
of a crescent of glittering steel, about a foot in 
length from horn to horn; the horns upward, and 
the under edge evidently as keen as that of a 
razor. Like a razor also it seemed massy and 
heavy, tapering from the edge into a solid and 
broad structure above. It was appended to a 
weighty rod of brass, and the whole hissed as it 
swung through the air. . 

I could no longer doubt the doom prepared 
for me by monkish ingenuity in torture. My 


140 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


cognisance of the pit had become known to the 
inquisitorial agents—the pit, whose horrors had 
been destined for so bold a recusant as myself— 
the pit, typical of hell and regarded by rumour 
as the Ultima Thule of all.their punishments. 
The plunge into this pit I had avoided by the 
merest of accidents, and I knew that surprise, or 
entrapment into torment, formed an important 
portion of all the grotesquerie of these dungeon 
deaths. Having failed to fall, it was no part of 
the demon-plan to hurl me into the abyss; and 
thus (there being no alternative) a different and 
a milder destruction awaited me. Milder! I 
half smiled in my agony as I thought of such 
application of such a term. 

What boots it to tell of the long, long hours of 
horror more than mortal, during which I counted 
the rushing oscillations of the steel! Inch by 
inch—line by line—with a descent only appre- 
ciable at intervals that seemed ages—down and 
still down it came! Days passed—it might have 
been that many days passed—ere it swept so 
closely over me as to fan me with its acrid 
breath. The odour of the sharp steel forced 
itself into my nostrils. I prayed—I wearied 
heaven with my prayer for its more speedy 
descent. I grew frantically mad, and struggled 
to force myself upward against the sweep of the 
fearful scimitar. And then I fell suddenly 
calm, and lay smiling at the glittering death, 
as a child at some rare bauble. 

There was another interval of utter insensi- 

141 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


bility; it was brief; for, upon again lapsing into 
life, there had been no perceptible descent in the 
pendulum. But it might have been long—for 
I knew there were demons who took note of my 
swoon, and who could have arrested the vibra- 
tion at pleasure. Upon my recovery, too, I felt 
very—oh, inexpressibly!—sick and weak, as if 
through long inanition. Even amid the agonies 
of that period, the human nature craved food. 
With painful effort I outstretched my left arm 
as far as my bonds permitted, and took possession 
of the small remnant which had been spared me 
by the rats. As I put a portion of it within my 
lips, there rushed to my mind a half-formed 
thought of joy—of hope. Yet what business had 
I with hope? It was, as I say, a half-formed 
thought—man has many such, which are never 
completed. I felt that it was of joy—of hope; 
but I felt also that it had perished in its forma- 
tion. In vain I struggled to perfect—to regain 
it. Long suffering’ had nearly annihilated all 
my ordinary powers of mind. I was an imbecile 
—an idiot. 

The vibration of the pendulum was at right 
angles to my length. I saw that the crescent 
was designed to cross the region of the heart. 
It would fray the serge of my robe—it would 
return and repeat its operations—again—and 
again. Notwithstanding its terrifically wide 
sweep (some thirty feet or more), and the 
hissing vigour of its descent, sufficient to sunder 
these very walls of iron, still the fraying of my 


‘ 142 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


robe would be all that, for several minutes, it 
would accomplish. And at this thought I 
paused. I dared not go farther than this 
reflection. I dwelt upon it with a pertinacity 
of attention—as if, in so dwelling, I could afrest 
here the descent of the steel. I forced myself 
to ponder upon the sound of the crescent as 
it should pass across the’ garment—upon the 
peculiar thrilling sensation which the friction 
of cloth produces on the nerves. I pondered 
upon all this frivolity until my teeth were on 
edge. 

Down—steadily down—it .crept. I took a 
frenzied pleasure in contrasting its downward 
with its lateral velocity. To the right—to the 
left—far and wide—with the shriek of a damned 
spirit! to my heart, with the stealthy pace of 
the tiger! I alternately laughed and howled, as 
the one or the other idea grew predominant. 

Down—certainly, relentlessly down! It vi- 
brated within three inches of my bosom! I 
struggled violently—furiously—to free my left 
arm. This was free only from the elbow to 
the hand. I could reach the latter from the 
platter beside me to my mouth, with great effort, 
but no farther. Could I have broken the fasten- 
ings above the elbow, I would have seized and 
attempted to arrest the pendulum. I might as 
well have attempted to arrest an avalanche! 

Down—still unceasingly—still inevitably down. 
I gasped and struggled at each vibration. I 
shrank convulsively at its every sweep. My 


143 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


eyes followed its outward or upward whirls 
with the eagerness of the most unmeaning 
despair; they closed themselves spasmodically | 
at the descent, although death would have been 
a relief, oh, how unspeakable! Still I quivered 
in every nerve to think how slight a sinking 
of the machinery would precipitate that keen, 
glistening axe upon my bosom. It was hope that 
prompted the ‘nerve to quiver—the frame to 
shrink. It was hope—the hope that triumphs. 
on the rack—that whispers to the death- 
condemned even in the dungeons of the Inqui- 
sition. 

I saw that some ten or twelve vibrations 
would bring the steel in actual contact with my 
robe—and, with this observation, there suddenly 
came over my spirit all the keen, collected 
calmness of despair. For the first time during 
many hours—or perhaps days—I thought. It 
now occurred to me that the bandage, or sur- 
cingle, which enveloped me, was unique. I 
was tied by no separate cord. The first stroke 
of the razor-like crescent athwart any portion 
of the band would so detach it that it might be 
unwound from my person by means of my left 
hand. But how fearful, in that case, the 
proximity of the steel! The result of the slight- 
est struggle, how deadly! Was it likely, more- 
over, that the minions of the torturer had not 
foreseen and provided for this possibility? 
Was it probable that the bandage crossed my 
bosom in the track of the pendulum? Dreading © 


144 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


to find my faint, and, as it seemed, my last, 
hope frustrated, I so far elevated my head as 
to obtain a distinct view of my breast. The 
surcingle enveloped my limbs and body close 
in all directions—save tn the path of the destroying 
crescent. 

Scarcely had I dropped my head back into its 
original position, when there flashed upon my 
mind what I cannot better describe than as the 
unformed half of that idea of deliverance to 
which I have previously alluded, and of which 
a moiety only floated indeterminately through 
my brain when I raised food to my burning lips. 
The whole thought was now present—feeble, 
scarcely sane, scarcely definite—but still entire. 
I proceeded at once, with the nervous energy 
of despair, to attempt its execution. 

For many hours the immediate vicinity of 
the low framework upon which I lay had been 
literally swarming with rats. They were wild, 
bold, ravenous—their red eyes glaring upon 
me as if they waited but for motionlessness on 
my part to make me their prey. ‘‘To what 
food,’ I thought, ‘‘have they been accustomed 
in the well?” 

They had devoured, in spite of all my efforts 
to prevent them, all but a small remnant of the 
contents of the dish. I had fallen into an 
habitual see-saw, or wave of the hand about 
the platter; and at length the unconscious uni- 
formity of the movement deprived it of effect. 
In their voracity the vermin frequently fastened 


145 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


their sharp fangs in my fingers. With the 
particles of the oily and spicy viand which now 
remained I thoroughly rubbed the bandage 
wherever I.could reach it; then, raising my 
hand from the floor, I lay breathlessly still. 

At first the ravenous animals were startled 
and terrified at the change—at the cessation of 
movement. They shrank alarmedly back; many 
sought the well. But this was only fora moment. 
I had not counted in vain upon their voracity. 
Observing that I remained without motion, one 
or two of the boldest leaped upon the frame- 
work and smelt at the surcincle. This seemed 
the signal for a general rush. Forth from the 
well they hurried in fresh troops. They clung 
to the wood—they overran it, and leaped in 
hundreds upon my person. The measured 
movement of the pendulum disturbed them not 
at all. Avoiding its strokes, they busied them- 
selves with the anointed bandage. They pressed 
—they swarmed upon me in ever accumulating 
heaps. They writhed upon my throat; their 
cold lips sought my own; I was half stifled by 
their thronging pressure; disgust for which the 
world has no name swelled my bosom, and 
chilled, with a heavy clamminess, my heart. 
Yet one minute, and I felt that the struggle 
would be over. Plainly I perceived the loosening 
of the bandage. I knew that, in more than one 
place, it must be already severed. With a 
more than human resolution I lay stzll. 

Nor had I erred in my calculations—nor had 


146 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


I endured in vain. I at length felt that I was 
free. The surcingle hung in ribbons from my 
body. But the stroke of the pendulum already 
pressed upon my bosom. It had divided the 
serge of the robe. It had cut through the linen 
beneath. Twice again it swung, and a sharp 
sense of pain shot through every nerve. But 
the moment of escape had arrived. At a wave 
of my hand my deliverers hurried tumultuously 
away. With a steady movement—cautious, 
sidelong, shrinking, and slow—I slid from the 
embrace of the bandage and beyond the reach 
of the scimitar. For the moment, at least, J 
was free. 

Free!—and in the grasp of the Inquisition! 
I had scarcely stepped from my wooden bed of 
horror upon the stone floor of the prison when 
the motion of the hellish machine ceased, and 
I beheld it drawn up, by some invisible force, 
through the ceiling. My every motion was 
undoubtedly watched. Free!—I had but es- 
caped death in one form of agony, to be delivered 
unto worse than death in some other. With 
that thought I rolled my eyes nervously around 
on the barriers of iron that hemmed me in. 
Something unusual—some change which, at 
first, I could not appreciate distinctly—it was 
obvious had taken place in the apartment. For 
many minutes of a dreamy and _ trembling 
abstraction I busied myself in vain, uncon- 
nected conjecture. During this period I became 
aware, for the first time, of the origin of the 


147 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


sulphurous light which illumined the cell. It 
proceeded from a fissure, about half an inch in 
width, extending entirely around the prison at 
the base of the walls, which thus appeared, and 
were, completely separated from the floor. I 
endeavoured, but of course in vain, to look 
through the aperture. 

As I arose from the attempt the mystery of 
the alteration in the chamber broke at once 
upon my understanding. I have observed 
that, although the outlines of the figures. upon 
the walls were sufficiently distinct, yet the 
colours seemed blurred and indefinite. These 
colours had assumed, and were momentarily 
assuming, a startling and most intense brilliancy, 
that gave to the spectral and fiendish portraitures 
an aspect that might have thrilled even firmer 
nerves than my own.. Demon eyes, of a wild 
and ghastly vivacity, glared upon me in a 
thousand directions, where none had been 
visible before, and gleamed with the lurid 
lustre of a fire that I could not force my imagina- — 
tion to regard as unreal. 

Unreal!—Even while I breathed there came 
to my nostrils the breath of the vapour of heated 
iron! A suffocating odour pervaded the prison! 
A deeper glow settled each moment in the eyes 
that glared at my agonies! A richer tint of 
crimson diffused itself over the pictured horrors 
of blood. I panted! I gasped for breath! There 
could be no doubt of the design of my tormentors 
—oh! most unrelenting! oh! most demoniac of 


148 


The Pit and the Pendulum 


men! I shrank from the glowing metal to 
the centre of the cell. Amid the thought of 
the fiery destruction that impended, the idea 
of the coolness of the well came over my soul 
like balm. I rushed to its deadly brink. I 
threw my straining vision belqw. The glare 
from the enkindled roof illumined its inmost 
recesses. Yet for a wild moment did my 
spirit refuse to comprehend the meaning of 
what I saw. At length it forced—it wrestled its 
way into my soul—it burned itself in upon my 
shuddering reason. Oh! for a voice to speak!— 
oh! horror!—oh! any horror but this! With a 
shriek I rushed from the margin, and buried my 
face in my hands—weeping bitterly. 

The heat rapidly increased, and once again I 
looked up, shuddering as with a fit of the ague. 
There had been a second change in the cell— 
and now the change was obviously in the form. 
As before, it was in vain that I at first endeav- 
oured to appreciate or understand what was 
taking place. But not long was I left in doubt. 
The Inquisitorial vengeance had been hurried 
by my two-fold escape, and there was to be no 
more dallying with the King of Terrors. The 
room had been square. I saw that two of its: 
iron angles were now acute—two, consequently, 
obtuse. The fearful difference quickly in- 
creased with a low rumbling or moaning sound. 
In an instant the apartment had shifted its 
form into that of a lozenge. But the alteration 
stopped not here—I neither hoped nor desired 


149 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


it would stop. I could have clasped the red 
walls to my bosom as a garment of eternal peace. 
‘“‘Death,”’ I said, ‘‘any death but that of the pit!’’ 
Fool! might I not have known that «nto the pit 
it was the object of the burning iron to urge me? 
Could I resist its glows? or if even that, could I 
withstand its pressure? And now, flatter and 
flatter grew the lozenge, with a rapidity that 
left me no time for contemplation. Its centre, 
and of course its greatest width, came just 
over the yawning gulf. I shrank back—but the 
closing walls pressed me resistlessly onward. 
At length for my seared and writhing body there 
was no longer an inch of foothold on the firm 
floor of the prison. I struggled no more, but 
the agony of my soul found vent in one loud, 
long, and final scream of despair. gI felt that I 
tottered upon the brink—I averted my eyes 

There was a discordant hum of human voices! 
There was a loud blast as of many trumpets! 
There was a harsh grating as of a thousand 
thunders! The fiery walls rushed back! An 
outstretched arm caught my own as I fell, 
fainting,into the abyss. It was that of General 
Lasalle. The French army had entered Toledo. 
‘The Inquisition was in the hands of its enemies! 


150 


REALITY 


BY 


CHARLES READE 


Miss Sopuia JACKSON, in the State of Illinois, 
was a beautiful girl, and had a devoted lover, 
Ephraim Slade; a merchant’s clerk. Their at- 
tachment was sullenly permitted by Miss Jack- 
son’s parents, but not encouraged: they thought 
she might look higher. 

Sophia said, ‘‘Why, la! he is handsome and 
good, and loves me, and is not that enough?”’ 

They said, “No; to marry Beauty, a man 
ought to be rich.” 

““Well,”’ said Sophy, ‘‘he is on the way to it: 
he is in a merchant’s office.” 

“‘It is a long road; for he is only a clerk.” 

The above is a fair specimen of the dialogue, 
and conveys as faint an idea of it as specimens 
generally do. 

All this did not prevent Ephraim and 
Sophia from spending many happy hours 
together. 

But presently another figure came on the 
scene—Mr. Jonathan Clarke. He took a fancy 
to Miss Jackson, and told her parents so, and 
that she was the wife for him, if she was dis- 
engaged. They said, ‘Well, now, there was 2 


Ess 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


young clerk after her, but the man was too 
poor to marry her.”’ 

Now, Mr. Jonathan Clarke was a wealthy 
speculator; so, on that information, he felt 
superior, and courted her briskly. 

She complained to Ephraim. “The idea 
of their encouraging that fat fool to think of 
me!’’ said she. She called him old, though he 
was but thirty, and turned his person and 
sentiments into ridicule, though, in the opinion 
of sensible people, he was a comely man, full of 
good sense and sagacity. 

Mr. Clarke paid her compliments. Miss 
Jackson laughed, and reported them to Slade in 
a way to make him laugh too. 

Mr. Clarke asked her to marry him. She 
said no; she was too young to think of 
that. She told Ephraim she had flatly re- 
fused him. 

Mr. Clarke made her presents. She refused 
the first, and blushed, but was prevailed on to 
accept. She accepted the second and the third, 
- without first refusing them. : 

She did not trouble Ephraim Slade with any 
portion of this detail. She was afraid it might 
_ give him pain. 

Clarke wooed her so warmly that Ephraim 
got jealous and unhappy. He remonstrated. 
Sophia cried, and said it was all her parents’ 
fault—forcing the man upon her. 

Clarke was there every day. Ephraim scolded. 
Sophia was cross. They parted in anger. 


152 


Reality 


Sophia went home, and snubbed Clarke. Clarke 
laughed, and said, ‘‘Take your time.” 

He stuck there four hours. She came round, 
and was very civil. 

Matters progressed. Ephraim always un- 
happy. Clark always jolly. Parents in the 
same mind. 

Clarke urged her to name the day. 

*‘Never!”’ 

Urged her again. 

“Next year.” 

‘Urged her again before her parents. They 
put in their word. ‘‘Sophy, don’t trifle any 
longer. You are overdoing it.” 

‘“‘There, there, do what you like with me,” said 
the girl; ‘‘I am miserable!”’ and ran out crying. 

Clarke and parents laughed, and stayed behind, 
and settled the day. 

When Sophy found they had settled the day, 
she sent for Ephraim and told him, with many 
tears: ‘“‘Oh!’’ said she, “‘you little know what 
I have suffered this six months!”’ 

*“My poor girl,” said Ephraim, ‘‘let us elope 
and end it.” 

“What! My parents would curse me.” 

“Oh, they would forgive us in time!”’ 

“Never. You don’t know them. No, my 
poor Ephraim, we are unfortunate. We can 
never be happy together. We must bow. I 
should die if this went on much longer.” 

“You are a fickle, faithless jade!’’ cried 
Ephraim, in agony. 


153 


- Masterpieces of Fiction 


*‘God forgive you, dear!’”’ said she, and wept 
silently. | 

Then he tried to comfort her. Then she 
put her arm round his neck, and assured him 
she yielded to constraint, but her heart could 
never forget him; she was more unhappy than 
he, and always Bhouls be. 

They parted, with many tears on both sides, 
and she married Clarke. At her earnest request, 
Slade kept away from the ceremony. By that 
means she was not compeiled to wear the air 
of a victim, but could fling the cloak of illusory 
happiness and gayety over her aching heart; and 
she did it, too. She was as gay a bride as had 
been seen for some years in those parts. 

Ephraim Slade was very unhappy. However, 
after a bit, he comprehended the character of 
Sophia Clarke, wée Jackson, and even imitated 
her. She had gone in for money, and so did he: 
only on the square—a detail she had omitted. 
Years went on: he became a partner in the 
house, instead of a clerk. The girls set their 
caps at him. But he did not marry. Mrs. 
Clarke observed this, and secretly approved. 
Say she had married, that was no reason why 
he should. Justice des femmes! 

Now you wiil observe that, by all the laws 
of fiction, Mrs. Clarke ought to have learned, to 
her cost, that money does not bring happiness, 
and ought to have been miserable, especially 
whenever she encountered the pale face of him 
whose love she valued too late. 


154 


Reality 


Well, she broke all those laws, and went in 
for Life as it is. She was happier than most 
wives. Her husband was kind, but not doting; 
a gentle master, but no slave. And she liked it. 
She had two beautiful children, and they helped 
fill her life. Her husband’s gold smoothed her 
path, and his manly affection strewed it with 
flowers. She was not passionately devoted to 
‘him, but still, by the very laws of nature, the 
wife was fonder of Jonathan than the maid 
had ever been of Ephraim; not but what the 
latter remaining unmarried tickled her vanity, 
and so completed her content. 

She passed six years in clover, and the clover 
in full bloom all the time. Nevertheless, gilt 
happiness is apt to get a rub sooner or later. 
Clarke had losses one upon another, and at last 
told her he was done for. He must go back to 
California, and make another fortune. ‘‘Lucky 
the old folks made me settle a good lump on 
you,’ said he. ‘‘You are all right, and the 
children.”’ 

Away went stout-hearted Clarke, and left 
his wife behind. He knew the country, and 
went at all in the ring, and began to remake 
money fast. : 

His letters were not very frequent, no 
models of conjugal love, but they had good 
qualities. One was their contents—a draft on 
New York. 

Some mischievous person reported that he 
was often seen about with the same lady; but 


155 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Mrs. Clarke did not believe polit the remittances 
being regular. 

But presently both letters and remittances 
ceased. ‘Then she believed the worst, and sent 
a bitter remonstrance. 

She received no reply. 

Then she wrote:a bitterer one, and, for the 
first time since their union, cast Ephraim Slade 
in histeeth. ‘There he is,” said she, ‘unmarried 
to this day, for my sake.” 

No reply even to this. 

She went to her parents, and told them how 
she was used. 

They said they had foreseen it—that being 
a lie some people think it necessary to deliver 
themselves of before going seriously into any 
question—and then, after a few pros and cons, 
they bade her observe that her old lover, Ephraim 
Slade, was a rich man, a man unmarried evidently 
for her sake. If she was wise, she would look 
that way, and get rid of a mock husband, who 
was probably either dead or false, and, in any 
case, had deserted her. 

“But what am I to do?” said Mrs. Clarke, 
affecting not to know what they were driving 
at. 

“Why, sue for a divorce.”’ 

‘‘Divorce Jonathan! Think of it! He is the 
father of my children, and he was a good husband 
to me all the time he was with me. It is all that 
nasty California.’’ And she began to cry. 

The old people told her she must take people 


156 


Reality 


as they were, not as they had been; and it was 
no fault of hers, nor California’s, if her husband 
was a changed man. 

In short, they pressed her hard to sue for a 
divorce and let Slade know she was going to 
do it. 

But the woman was still handsome and under 
thirty, and was not without a certain pride and 
delicacy that grace her sex even when they lack 
the more solid virtues. ‘‘No,’’ said she, “‘I will 
never go begging to any man. I'll not let 
Ephraim Slade think I divorced my husband 
just to get him. I'll part with Jonathan, since 
_ he has parted with me, and after that I will take 
my chance. Ephraim Slade? He is not the 
only man in the world with eyes in his head.”’ 

So she sued for a divorce, and got it’ quite 
easily. Divorce is beautifully easy in the West. 

When she was free, she had no longer any 
scruple about Ephraim. He lived at a town 
seven miles from her. She had a friend in that 
town. She paid her a visit. She let the other 
lady into her plans, and secured her co-operation. 
Mrs. X set it abroad that Mrs. Clarke was 
a widow; and, from one to another, Ephraim 
Slade was given to understand that a visit 
from him would be agreeable. 

“Will it?”’ said Ephraim. ‘Then I'll go.” 

He called on her, and was received with a 
' sweet, pensive tenderness. ‘‘Sit down, Ephraim 
—Mr. Slade,’ said she, softly and tremulously, 
and left the room. She had scarcely cleared it 


157 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


when he heard her tell the female servant, with 
a sharp, imperious tone, to admit no other 
visitors. It did not seem. the, same voice. 
She came back to him melodious. ‘“‘The sight 
of you after so many years upset me,’’ said she. 
Then, after a pause and a sigh, ‘‘ You look well.” 

‘‘Oh, yes, I am all right! We are neither of 
us quite so young as we were, you know.”’ 

‘‘No, indeed’’ (with another sigh). ‘Well, 
dear friend, I suppose you have heard. I am 
punished, you see, for my want of courage and 
fidelity. I have always been punished. But 
you could not know that. Perhaps, after all, 
you have been the happier of the two. I am 
sure I hope you have.” 

“Well, I'll tell you, Mrs. Clarke,’’ said he, in 
open, manly tones. 

She stopped him. ‘Please don’t call me 
Mrs. Clarke, when I have parted with the name 
forever; (sotto voce) call me Sophia.”’ 

“Well, then, Sophia, I’ll tell you the truth. 
When you jilted me——’”’ 

One 

““And married Cl who shall I say? Well, 
then, married another, because he had got more 
money than I had——’”’ 

“No, no. Ephraim, it was all my parents. 
But I will try and bear your reproaches. Go 
on.” 

“Well, then, of course I was awfully cut up. » 
I was wild. I got a six-shooter to kill you and 
—the other.”’ 


158 


Reality 


“I wish you had,’ said she. She didn’t wish 
anything of the kind. | 

“I’m very glad I didn’t, then. I dropped 
the six-shooter and took to the moping and 
crying line.”’ 

““Poor Ephraim!” 

“Oh, yes! I went through all the changes, 
and ended as other men do.” 

**And how is that?”’ 

“Why, by getting over it.”’ 

“What! you have got over it?”’ 

‘“‘Lord, yes! long ago.” 

“‘Oh! in—deed!’’ said she, bitterly. Then, 
with sly incredulity, ‘‘How is it you have never 
married ?”’ 

“Well, Ill tell you. When I found that 
money was everything with you girls, I calculated 
to go in for money too. So I speculated, like— 
the other, and made money. But, when I had 
once begun to taste money-making, somehow 
I left off troubling about women. And, besides, 
I know a great many people, and I look coolly 
on, and what I see in every house has set me 
against marriage: Most of my married friends 
envy me, and say so. I don’t envy any one of 
them, and don’t pretend to. Marriage! It is a 
bad institution! You have got clear of it, I 
hear. All the better for you. I mean to take 
a shorter road: I won’t ever get into it.” 

This churl, then, who had drowned hot 
passion in the waves of time, and, instead 
of nursing a passion for her all his days, had 


159 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


been hugging celibacy as man’s choicest treasure, 
asked her coolly if there was anything he could 
do for her. Could he be of service in finding 
out investments, etc., or could-he place either 
of the boys in the road to wealth? Instead of 
hating these poor children, like a man, he 
seemed all the more inclined to serve them that 
their absent parent had secured him the sweets 
of celibacy. 

She was bursting with ire, but had the self- 
restraint to thank him, though very coldly, and 
to postpone all discussion of that kind to a 
future time. Then he shook hands. with her, 
and left her. 

She was wounded to the core. It would 
have been very hard to wound her heart as 
deeply as this interview wounded her pride. 

She sat down, and shed tears of mortification. 

She was aroused from that condition by a 
letter in a well-known hand. She opened it, 
all in a flutter: 


‘““My Dear Sophy: You are a nice wife, 
you are. Here I have been slaving my life 
out for you, and shipwrecked, and nearly dead 
with a fever, and coming home rich again, and 
I asked you just to come from Chicago to New 
York to meet me, that have come all the way 
from China and San Francisco, and it is too 
much trouble. Did you ever hear of Lunham’s 
dog that was so lazy he leaned against the 
wall to bark? It is very disheartening to a 
poor fellow that has played a man’s part for 
you and the children. Now, be a good girl, and 


160 


Reality 


meet me at Chicago to-morrow at6p.M._ For, 
if you don’t, by thunder! I’ll take the chil- 
dren and absquatulate with them to Paris, or 
somewhere. I find the drafts on New York 
I sent from China have never been presented. 
Reckon by that, you never got them. Has that 
raised your dander? Well, it is not my fault. 
So put on your bonnet, and come and meet 
“Your affectionate husband, 
“ JONATHAN CLARKE. 


““T sent my first letter to your father’ s house. 
I send this to your friend, Mrs. X 


Mrs. Clarke read this in such a tumult of 
emotions that her mind could not settle a 
moment on one thing. But when she had read it, 
the blood in her beating veins began to run cold. 

What on earth should she do? Fall to the 
ground between two stools? No—that was a 
‘man’s trick, and she was a woman, every inch. 

She had not any time to lose; so she came to a 
rapid conclusion. Her acts will explain better 
than comments. She dressed, packed up one 
box, drove to the branch station, and got to 
Chicago. She bought an exquisite bonnet, took 
private apartments at a hotel, and employed 
an intelligent person to wait for her husband 
at the station, and call out his name, and give 
him a card, on which was written: 


Mrs. JONATHAN CLARKE i 
: “At the X—— Hotel ‘ 


eeeerseee ew ve eee ee es we we eee ese see ee ee 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


This done, she gave her mind entirely to the 
decoration of her person. 

The ancients, when they had done anything 
wrong, and wanted to be forgiven, used to ap- 
proach their judges with dishevelled hair and 
shabby clothes—sordidis vestibus. 

This poor shallow woman, unenlightened by 
the wisdom of the ancients, thought the nicer a 
woman looked, the likelier a man would be to 
forgive her, no matter what. So she put on her 
best silk dress, and her new French hat bought 
on purpose, and made her hair very neat, and 
gave her face a wash and a rub, that added 
colour. She did not rouge, because she calcu- 
lated she should have to cry before the end of 
the play, and crying hard over rouge makes 
channels. | 

When she was as nice as could be, she sat 
down to wait for her divorcé. She might be 
compared to a fair spider which has spread her 
web to catch a wasp, but is sorely afraid that, 
when he does come, he will dash it all to ribbons. 

The time came, and passed. An expected 
character is always as slow to come as a watched 
pot to boil. 

At last there was a murmur on the stairs; 
then a loud, hearty voice; then a blow at the 
door—you could not call it a tap—and in burst 
Jonathan Clarke, brown as a berry, beard a foot 
long, genial and loud, open-hearted, Californian 
manners. 

At sight of her, he gave a hearty ‘“‘Ah!”’ and 


162 


Reality 


came at her with a rush to clasp her to his manly 
bosom, and knocked over a little gilt cane chair. 

The lady, quaking internally and trembling 
from head to foot, received him like the awful 
Siddons, with one hand nobly extended, for- — 
bidding his profane advance. ‘‘A word first, 
if you please, sir.”’ 

Then Clarke stood transfixed, with one foot 
advanced and his arm in the air, like Ixion when 
Juno turned cloud. 

‘*You have ordered me to come here, sir, and 
you have no longer any right to order me: but I 
am come, you see, to tell you my mind. What, 
do you really think a wife is to be deserted and 
abandoned, most likely for some other woman, 
and then be whistled back into her place like a 
dog?. No man shall use me so.” 

“Why, what is the row? Has a mad dog bit- 
ten you, ye cantankerous critter?’’ 

“‘Not a letter for ten months, that is the mat- 
ter!’’ cried Mrs. Clarke, loud and aggressive. 

“That is not my fault.. I wrote three from 
China, and sent you two drafts on New York.”’ 

“It is easy to say so: I don’t believe it.” 
(Louder and aggressiver.) 

CLARKE (bawling in his turn). ‘‘I don’t care 
whether you believe it or not. Nobody but you 
calls Jony Clarke a lar.” 

Mrs. CLarRKE (competing in violence). ‘‘I 
believe one thing—that you were seen all about 
San Francisco with a lady. ’Twas to her you 
directed my letters and drafts: that is how I lost 


163 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


them. It is always the husband that is in fault, 
and not the post.’’ (Very amicably all of a sud- 
den) : ‘‘How long were you in California after you 
came back from China?”’ 

‘“Two months.”’ 

‘‘How often did you write in that time?”’ 
(Sharply.) 

“Well, you see, I was always expecting to 
start for home.”’’ 

“You never wrote once!’’ (Very loud.) 

‘‘That was the reason.”’ 

“That and the lady!’’ (Screaming loud.) 

‘‘Stuff! Give me a kiss, and no more non- 
sense.”’ 

(Solemnly): ‘‘That I shall never do again. 
Husbands must be taught not to trifle with their 
wives’ affections in this cruel way.’”’ (Tenderly): 
“Oh, Jonathan, how:could you abandon me? 
What could youexpect? Iam not old; Iam not 
ugly.” . 

“Damn it all, if you have been playing any 
games’’—-and he felt instinctively for a bowie- 
knife. 

“Sir!’’ said the lady, in an awful tone, that 
subjugated the monster directly. 

*‘Well, then,’ said he, sullenly, *‘don’t talk 
nonsense. Please remember we are man and wife.”’ 

Mrs. CLARKE (very gravely). ‘Jonathan, we 
are not.” 

“If you are going into a passion, I won’t tell 
you anything; I hate to be frightened. What 
language the man has picked up—in California!’’ 


164 


Reality 


‘‘Well, that’s neither here nor there. You go 
on.” 

‘Well, Jonathan, you know I have always 
been under the influence of my parents. It was 
at their wish I married you.” 

“That is not what you told me at the time.” 

“Oh, yes, I did; only you have forgotten. 
Well, when no word came from you for so many 
months, my parents were indignant, and they 
worked upon me so and pestered me so—that— 
Jonathan, we are divorced.” 

The actress thought this was a good point to 
cry at, and cried accordingly. 

Jonathan started at the announcement, swore 
a heartful, and then walked the room in rage 
and bitterness. ‘‘So, then,” said he, ‘‘ you leave 
the woman you love, and the children whose 
smiles are your heaven; you lead the life of a dog 
for them, and, when you come back, by God! the 
wife of your bosom has divorced you, just because 
a letter or two miscarried! That outweighs all 
you have done and suffered for her. Oh, you 
are crying, are you? What, you have given up 
facing it out, and laying the blame on me, have 
you?” 

“Yes, dear; I find you were not to blame: it 
was—my parents.” 

“Your parents! Why, you are not a child, 
are you? You are the parent of my children, 
you little idiot! Have you forgotten that?”’ 

‘‘No. Oh! oh! oh! I have acted hastily, and 
very, very wrong.” 


165 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


~ “Come, that is a good deal for a pretty woman 
to own. There, dry your eyes, and let us order 
dinner.” ae 

‘What! dine with you?” 

‘““‘Why, damn it, it is not the first time by a 
few thousand.”’ 

‘“‘La, Jonathan! I should like; but I mustn't.” 

“Why not?’ 

““T should be compromised.”’ 

“What, with me?”’ 

‘““Yes—with any gentleman. Do try and 
realise the situation, dear. J amasinglewoman.”’ 

Good Mr. Clarke—from California—delivered 
a string of curses so rapidly that they all ran into 
what Sir Walter calls a ‘‘clishmaclaver,’’ even as 
when the ringers clash and jangle the church bells. 

Mrs. Clarke gave him time; but as soon as he 
was in a state to listen quietly, compelled him 
to realise her situation. ‘*‘ You see,’ said she, ‘‘I 
am obliged to be very particular now. Delicacy 
demands it. You remember poor Ephraim 
Slade ?”’ 

“Your old sweetheart. Confound him! has 
he been after you again?”’ 

“Why, Jonathan, ask yourself. He has 
remained unmarried ever since, and, when he 
heard I was free, of course he entertained hopes. 
But I kept him at a distance, and so”’ (tenderly 
and regretfully) ““I must you. J am a single 
woman.”’ 

“Look me in the face, Sophy. You won't 
dine with me?” 


166 


Reality , 


“I'd give the world, but I mustn’t, dear.” 

“Not if I twist your neck round—darling—if 
you don’t?” 

““No, dear. You shall kill me, if you please. 
But I am a respectable woman, and I will not 
brave the world. But I know I have acted 
rashly, foolishly, ungratefully, and deserve to be 
killed. Kill me, dear—you’ll forgive me then!”’ 
With that, she knelt down at his feet, crossed her 
hands over his knees, and looked up sweetly in 
his face with brimming eyes, waiting, yea, even 
requesting, to be killed. 

He looked at her with glistening eyes. ‘‘You 
cunning hussy,”’ said he, ‘‘you know I would not 
hurt a hair of your head. What is to be done? 
I tell you what it is, Sophy: I have lived three 
years without a wife, and that isenough. I won’t 
live any longer so—no, not a day. It shall be 
you, or somebody else. Ah! what is that?—a 
bell. Ill ring, and order one. I’ve got lots of 
money. They are always to be had for that, 
you know.” 

“Oh, Jonathan! don’t talk so. It is scan- 
dalous. How can you get a wife all in a minute 
by ringing?”’ 

“Tf I can’t, then the town-crier can. I'll hire 
him.”’ 

‘“‘For shame!”’ 

‘‘How is it to be, then? You that are so 
smart at dividing couples, you don’t seem to be 
very clever in bringing ’em together again.”’ 

“It was my parents, Jonathan, not me. Well, 


167 


Masterpieces of Fiction — 


dear, I always think when people are in a diffi-. 
culty, the best thing is to go to some very good 
person for advice. Now, the best people are 
the clergymen. There is one in this street, 
number eighteen. Perhaps he could advise us.”’ 

Jonathan listened gravely for a little while, 
before he saw what she was at, but the moment 
he caught the idea so slyly conveyed he slapped 
his thigh and shouted out, ‘‘ You are a sensible 
girl—come on!’’ And he almost dragged her 
to the clergyman. Not but what he found time 
to order a good dinner in the hall as they went. 

The clergyman was out, but soon found. He 
remarried them, and they dined together man 
and wife. 

They never mentioned grievances that night, 
and Jonathan said, afterward, his second bridal 
was worth a dozen of his first. For, the first 
time, she was a child, and had to be courted 
up-hill, but the second time she was a woman, 
and knew what to say to a fellow. 

Next day Mr. and Mrs. Clarke went over 
to They drove about in an open car- 
riage for some hours, and did a heap of shopping. 
They passed by Ephraim Slade’s place of busi- 
ness much oftener than there was any need, and 
slower. It was Mrs. Clarke who drove. Jon- 
athan sat, and took it easy. 

She drives to this day. 

And Jonathan takes it easy. 


168 


THE 
POCKET UNIVERSITY 


ForTy-FIVE VOLUMES IN [TWENTY-SIX 


VOLUME XLII 


FICTION 


EDITED BY 
HAMILTON W. MABIE 


VotumeE VI 


THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION 
AND NELSON DOUBLEDAY 
NEW YORK 


1917 


Copyright. 1904, by 


Doubleday, Page & Company — 


CONTENTS 


“The Man Who Would Be King,” 

By: Rudyard siping... “saceneets ats 
“The Piece of String,” | 

By Henri René Albert Guy de Maupassant 
‘The Spectre Bridegroom,” 

By Washington Irving . 
“A Fight for the Tsarina,” 

By Maurus Jokai 
** A Passion in the Desert,” 

By Honoré de Balzac 
“The Snowstorm,” 


By Alexander Sergeivitch Pushkin . 


152 


Fem ee ee 
er icaw OCT EE Ce FS x 


2 


THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING* 


BY 


RuDYARD ‘KIPLING 


THE Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct 
of life, and one not easy to follow. I have been 
fellow to a beggar again and again under cir- 
cumstances which prevented either of us finding 
out whether the other was worthy. I have 
still to be brother to a Prince, though I once 
came near to kinship with what might have 
been a veritable King and was promised the 
reversion of a Kingdom —army, law-courts, 
revenue and policy all complete. But, to-day, 
I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I 
want a crown I must go and hunt it for myself. 

The beginning of everything was in a railway 
train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. 
There had been a deficit in the Budget, which 
necessitated travelling, not Second-class, which 
is only half as dear as First-class, but by Inter- 
mediate, which is very awful indeed. There are 
no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the 
population are either Intermediate, which is 
Eurasian, or native, which for a long night 
journey is nasty; or Loafer, which is amusing 
though intoxicated. Intermediates do not pa- 
tronise refreshment rooms. They carry their 


*Copyright, 1895, by Macmillan & Company. Copyright 
1899, by Rudyard Kipling. J 


I 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from 
the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the road- 
side water. That is why in the hot weather 
Intermediates are taken out of the carriages 
dead, and in all weathers are most properly 
looked down upon. 

My particular Intermediate happened to 
be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when a huge 
gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, follow- 
ing the custom of Intermediates, passed the time: 
of day.- He was a wanderer and a vagabond 
like myself, but with an educated taste for 
whisky. He told tales of things he had seen 
and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the 
Empire into which he had penetrated, and of 
adventures in which he risked his life for a few 
days’ food. “‘If India was filled with men like 
you and me, not knowing more than the crows 
where they’d get their next day’s rations, it 
isn’t seventy millions of revenue the land would 
be paying—it’s seven hundred million,” said 
he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I 
was disposed to agree with him. We talked. 
politics—the politics of Loaferdom that sees 
things from the underside where the lath and 
plaster is not smoothed off—and we talked postal 
arrangements because my friend wanted to 
send a telegram back from the next station to 
Ajmir, which is the turning-off place from the 
Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. 
My friend had no money beyond eight annas 
which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money 


2 


The Man Who Would Be King 


at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before 
mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilder- 
ness where, though I should resume touch with 
the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. 
I was, therefore, unable to help him in any 
way. 

‘““We might threaten a Station-master, and 
make him send a wire on tick,” said my friend, 
‘‘but that’d mean inquiries for you and for me, 
and I’ve got my hands full these days. Did 
you say you are travelling back along this line 
within any days?” 

‘Within ten,” I said. 

‘““Can’t you make it eight?” said he. ‘Mine 
is rather urgent business.” 

‘IT can send your telegram within ten days if 
that will serve you,” I said. 

“TI couldn’t trust the wire to fetch him now 
I think of it. It’s this way. He leaves Delhi 
on the 23d for Bombay. That means he’ll be 
running through Ajmir about the night of the 
Bacay 

“But I’m going into the Indian Desert,” I 
explained. 

‘Well and good,” said he. ‘‘You’ll be 
changing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodh- 
pore territory—you must do that—and he'll 
be coming through Marwar Junction in the 
early morning of the 24th by the Bombay 
Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that 
time? ’Twon’t be inconveniencing you because 
I know that there’s precious few pickings to be 


3 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


got out of these Central India States—even 
though you pretend to be correspondent of the 
Backwoodsman.”’ 

‘‘Have you ever tried that trick?” I asked. 

““Again and again, but the Residents find 
you out, and then you get escorted to the Border 
before you've time to get your knife into them. 
But about my friend here. I must give him a 
word o’ mouth to tell him what’s come to me 
or else he won’t know where to go. I would take 
it more than kind of you if you was to come out 
of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar 
Junction, and say to him—‘He has gone South 
for the week.’ He'll know what that means. 
He’s a big man with a red beard, and a great 
swell he is. You'll find him sleeping like a 
gentleman with all his luggage round him in a 
second-class compartment. But don’t you be 
afraid. Slip down the window, and say—‘He 
has gone South for the week,’ and he’ll tumble. 
It’s only cutting your time of stay in those parts 
by two days. I ask you as a stranger—going to 
the West,” he said with emphasis. 

‘“Where have you come from?” said I. 

‘‘From the East,” said he, ‘‘and I am hoping 
that you will give him the message on the 
Square—for the sake of my Mother as well as 
your own.” 

Englishmen are not usually softened by 
appeals to the memory of their mothers, but 
for certain reasons, which will be ie apparent, 
I saw fit to agree. 


4 


The Man Who Would Be King 


_ ‘It’s more than a little matter,” said he, ‘‘and 
that’s why I ask you to do it—and now I know 
that 1 can depend on you doing it. A second- 
class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red- 
haired man asleep in it. You'll be sure to 
remember. I get out at the next station, and I 
must hold on there till he comes or sends me 
what I want.” 

‘‘T’ll give the message if I catch him,”’ I said, 
“and for the sake of your Mother as well as 
mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don’t 
try to run the Central India States just now as 
the correspondent of the Backwoodsman. There’s 
a real one knocking about here, and it might 
lead to trouble.” 

“Thank you,’ said he simply, ‘‘and when 
will the swine be gone? I can’t starve because 
he’s ruining my work. I wanted to get hold 
of the Degumber Rajah down here about his 
father’s widow, and give him a jump.” 

‘“What did he do to his father’s widow, then?’’ 

“Filled her up with red pepper and slippered 
her to death as she hung from a beam. [ 
found that out myself and I’m the only man 
that would dare going into the State to get hush- 
money for it. They'll try to poison me, same 
as they did in Chortumna when I went on the 
loot there. But you'll give the man at Marwar 
Junction my message ?”’ 

He got out at a little roadside station, and I 
reflected. I had heard, more than once, of 
men personating correspondents of newspapers 


5 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


and bleeding small Native States with threats 
of exposure, but I had never met any of the 
caste before. They lead a hard life, and gener- 
ally die with great suddenness. The Native 
States have a wholesome horror of English 
newspapers, which may throw light on their 
peculiar methods of government, and do their 
best to choke correspondents with champagne, 
or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand 
barouches. They donot understand that nobody 
cares a straw for the internal administration of 
Native States so long as oppression and crime 
are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is 
not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end 
of the year to the other. Native States were 
created by Providence in order to supply pic- 
turesque scenery, tigers and tall-writing. They 
are the dark places of the earth, full of unimagin- 
able cruelty, touching the Railway and the 
Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the 
days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the 
train I did business with divers Kings, and in 
eight days passed through many changes of 
life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and con- 
sorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking 
from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes 
I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I 
could get, from a plate made of a flapjack, and. 
drank the running water, and slept under the 
same rug as my servant. It was all in a day’s 
work. 

Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert 


6 


The Man Who Would Be King 


upon the proper date, as I had promised, and 
the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, 
where a funny little, happy-go-lucky, native 
managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The Bom- 
bay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at 
Marwar. She arrived as I got in, and I had 
just time to hurry to her platform and go down 
the carriages. There was only one second-class 
on the train. I slipped the window and looked 
down upon a flaming red beard, half covered 
by a railway rug. That was my man, fast 
asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He 
woke with a grunt and I saw his face in the 
light of the lamps. It was a great and shining 
face. 

‘*Tickets again?’’ said he. 

“‘No,” said I. ‘I am to tell you that he is 
gone South for the week. He is gone South 
for the week!” 

The train had begun to move out. The red 
man rubbed his eyes. ‘‘He has gone South for 
the week,” he repeated. ‘‘Now that’s just like 
his impudence. Did he say that I was to give 
you anything? ’Cause I won’t.” 

‘‘He didn’t,” I said and dropped away, and 
‘watched the red lights die out in the dark. It 
was horribly cold because the wind was blowing 
off the sands. I climbed into my own train— 
not an Intermediate Carriage this time—and 
‘went to sleep. 

If the man with the beard had given me a 
rupee I should have kept it as a memento of 


7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


a rather curious affair. But the consciousness 
of having done my duty was my only reward. 

Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like 
my friends could not do any good if they fore- 
gathered and personated correspondents of news- ' 
papers, and might, if they ‘‘stuck up” one of 
the little rat-trap states of Central India or. 
Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious 
difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to 
describe them as accurately as’ I could remember 
to people who would be interested in deporting 
them; and succeeded, so I was later informed, in 
having them headed back from the Degumber 
borders. 

Then I became respectable, and returned to 
an Office where there were no Kings and no 
incidents except the daily manufacture of a 
newspaper. <A newspaper office seems to attract 
every conceivable sort of person, to the prejudice 
of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and 
beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all 
his duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in 
a back-slum of a perfectly inaccessible village; 
Colonels who have been overpassed for commands 
sit down and sketch the outline of a series of 
ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on 
Seniority versus Selection; missionaries wish to 
know why they have not been permitted to 
escape from their regular vehicles of abuse and 
swear at a brother-missionary under special 
patronage of the editorial We; stranded theatrical 
companies troop up to explain that they cannot 


8 


The Man Who Would Be King 


pay for their advertisements, but on their 
return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so 
with interest; inventors of patent punkah-pulling 
machines, carriage couplings and unbreakable 
swords and axle-trees call with specifications in 
their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea- 
companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses 
with the office pens; secretaries of ball-committees 
clamour to have the glories of their last dance 
more fully expounded; strange ladies rustle in 
and say:-—“‘I want a hundred lady’s cards 
printed at once, please,’ which is manifestly part 
of an Editor’s duty; and every dissolute ruffian 
that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes 
it his business to ask for employment as a proof- 
reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell is 
ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on the 
Continent, and Empires are saying, ‘‘You’re 
another,’ and Mister Gladstone is calling down 
brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the 
little black copy-boys are whining, ‘‘kaa-pz 
chayha-yeh”’ (copy wanted) like tired bees, and 
most of the paper is as blank as Modred’s shield. 

But that is the amusing part of the year. 
There are other six months wherein none ever 
come to call, and the thermometer walks inch 
by inch up to the top of the glass, and the office 
is darkened to just above reading light, and the 
. press machines are red-hot of touch, and nobody 
writes anything but accounts of amusements in 
the Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the 
telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because it 


9 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women 
that you knew intimately, and the  prickly- 
heat covers you as with a garment, and you 
sit down and write:—‘“ A slight increase of sick- 
ness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan 
district. The outbreak is purely sporadic in 
its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts. 
of the District authorities, is now almost at an 
end. It is, however, with deep regret we record 
the death, etc.” 

Then the sickness really breaks out, and the 
less recording and reporting the better for the 
peace of the subscribers. But the Empires and 
the Kings ‘continue to divert themselves as 
selfishly as before, and the foreman thinks that 
a daily paper really ought to come out once in 
twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill- 
stations in the middle of their amusements say: 
—‘Good gracious! Why can’t the paper be 
sparkling? I’m sure there’s plenty going on 
up * here.” 

That is the dark half of the moon, and, as 
the advertisements say, ‘must be experienced to. 
be appreciated.” 

It ‘was in that season, and a_ remarkably 
evil season, that the paper began running the 
last issue of the week on Saturday night, which 
is to say Sunday morning, after the custom of 
a London paper. This was a great convenience, 
for immediately after the paper was put to bed, 
the dawn would lower the thermometer from 96° 
to almost 84° for almost half an hour, and in 


IO 


The Man Who Would Be King 


that chill—you have no idea how cold is 84° 
on the grass until you begin to pray for it—a 
very tired man could set off to sleep ere the heat 
roused him. 

One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty 
to put the paper to bed alone. A King or 
courtier or a courtesan or a community was 
going to die or get a new Constitution, or do 
something that was important on the other side 
of the world, and the paper was to be held open 
till the latest possible minute in order to catch 
the telegram. It was a pitchy black night, as 
stifling as a June night can be, and the Joo, the 
red-hot wind from the westward, was booming 
among the tinder-dry trees and pretending that 
the rain was on its heels. Now and again a 
spot of almost boiling water would fall on the 
dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary 
world knew that was only pretence. It was 
a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, 
so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked 
and the night-jars hooted at the windows, and 
the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat 
from their foreheads and called for water. The 
thing that was keeping us back, whatever it was, 
would not come off, though the Joo dropped and 
the last type was set, and the whole round earth 
stood still in the choking heat, with its finger 
on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and 
wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, 
and whether this dying man, or struggling 
people, was aware of the inconvenience the delay 


II 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


was causing. There was no special reason 
beyond the heat and worry to make tension, 
but as the clock-hands crept up to three o’clock 
and the machines spun their fly-wheels two and 
three times to see that all was in order, before I 
said the word that would set them off, I could 
have shrieked aloud. 

Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered 
the quiet into little bits. . I rose to go away, but 
two men in white clothes stood in front of me. 
The: first one said: “It’s him!” "Thessecond 
said: ‘‘So it is!” And they both laughed 
almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and 
mopped their foreheads. ‘‘We see there was a 
light burning across the road and we were 
sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I 
- said to my friend here, ‘‘The office is open. 
Let’s come along and speak to him as turned us 
back from the Degumber State,’’ said the smaller 
of the two. He was the man I had met in the 
Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded 
man of Marwar Junction. There was no mis- 
taking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of 
the other. 

I was not pleased, because I wished to go to 
sleep, not to squabble with loafers. ‘“‘What do 
you want?’’ I asked. 

‘Half an hour’s talk with you cool and 
comfortable, in the office,” said the red-bearded 
man. ‘‘We’d like some drink—the Contrack 
doesn’t begin yet, Peachey, so you needn't 
look—but what we really want is advice. We 


I2 


The Man Who Would Be King 


don’t want money. We ask you as a favour 
because you did us a bad turn about Degumber.” 
_I led from the press-room to the stifling 
office with the maps on the walls, and the red- 
haired man rubbed his hands. ‘“‘That’s some- 
thing like,” said he. ‘‘This was the proper shop 
to come to. Now, Sir, let me introduce to you 
Brother Peachey Carnehan, that’s him, and 
Brother Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less 
said about our professions the better, for we have 
been most things in our time. Soldier, sailor, 
compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street- 
preacher, and correspondents of the Backwoods- 
man when we thought the paper wanted one. 
Carnehan is sober, andsoam I. Look at us first 
and see that’s sure. It will save you cutting 
into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars 
apiece, and you shall see us light.”’ 

I watched the test. The men were absolutely 
sober, so I gave them each a tepid peg. 

‘Well and good,” said Carnehan of the eye- 
brows, wiping the froth from his moustache. 
“‘Let me talk now, Dan. We have been all over 
India, mostly on foot. We have been boiler- 
fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and all 
that, and we have decided that India isn’t big 
enough for such as us.”’ 

They certainly were too big for the office. 
Dravot’s beard seemed to fill half the room and 
Carnehan’s shoulders the other half, as they 
sat on the big table. Carnehan continued :— 
““The country isn’t half worked out because 


13 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


they that governs it won’t let you touch it. 
They spend all their blessed time in governing it, 
and you can’t lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor 
look for oil, nor anything like that without all 
the Government saying—‘Leave it alone and 
let us govern.’ Therefore, such as it is, we will 
let it alone, and go away to some other place 
where a man isn’t crowded and can come to 
his own. We are not little-men, and there is 
nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and 
we have signed a Contrack on that. Therefore, 
Wwe are going away to be Kings.” 

““Kings in our own right,’’ muttered Dravot. 

‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘*You’ve been 
tramping in the sun, and it’s a very warm night, 
and hadn’t you better sleep over the notion? 
Come to-morrow.” 

‘Neither drunk nor sunstruck,” said Dravot. 
‘“We have slept over the notion half a year, and 
require to see Books and Atlases, and we have 
decided that there is only one place now in the 
world that two strong men can Sar-a-whack. 
They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning its 
the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not 
more than three hundred miles from Peshawar. 
They have two and thirty heathen idols there, 
and we'll be the thirty-third. It’s a mountainous 
country, and the women of those parts are very 
beautiful.”’ 

“But that is provided against in the Con- 
track,” said Carnehan. ‘‘Neither Women nor 
Liqu-or, Daniel.’’ : 


iAa 


The Man Who Would Be King 


““And that’s all we know, except that no one 
has gone there, and they fight, and in any place 
where they fight a man who knows how to 
drill men can always be a King. We shall go 
to those parts and say to any King we find— 
‘D’you want to vanquish your foes?’ and we 
will show him how to drill men; for that we know 
better than anything else. Then we will sub- 
vert that King and seize his Throne and establish 


a Dy-nasty.” 
“You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty 
miles across the Border,’ I said. ‘‘You have 


to travel through Afghanistan to get to that 
country. It’s one mass of mountains and 
peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been 
through it. The people are utter brutes, and 
even if you reached them you couldn’t do any- 
thing.” 

‘‘That’s more like,”’ said Carnehan. ‘‘If you 
could think us a little more mad we would be 
more pleased. We have come to you to know 
about this country, to read a book about it, and 
to be shown maps. We want you to tell us that 
we are fools and to show us your books.” He 
turned to the book-cases. 

‘‘Are you at all in earnest?”’ I said. 

“A little,’ said Dravot, sweetly. ‘“‘As big a 
map as you have got, even if it’s all blank where 
Kafiristan is, and any books you’ve got. We 
can read, though we aren’t very educated.” 

I uncased the big thirty two-miles-to-the-inch 
map of India, and two smaller Frontier maps, 


1) 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


hauled down volume INF-KAN of the Encyclo- 
pedia Britannica, and the men consulted them. 

‘See here!’’ said Dravot, his thumb on the 
map. ‘‘Up to Jagdallak, Peachey and me 
know the road. We was there with Roberts’s 
Army. We'll have to turn off to the right at 
Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then | 
we get among the hills—fourteen thousand feet 
—fifteen thousand—it will be cold work there, 
but it don’t look very far on the map.” 

I handed him Wood on the Sources of the 
Oxus. Carnehan was deep in the Encyclopedia. 

‘‘They’re a mixed lot,” said Dravot, re- 
flectively; ‘‘and it won’t help us to know the 
names of their tribes. The more tribes the more 
they'll fight, and the better for us. From 
Jagdallak to Ashang. H’mm!”’ 

“‘But all the information about the country 
is as sketchy and inaccurate as can be,” I 
protested. ‘‘No one knows anything about it 
really. Here’s the file of the United Services’ 
Institute. Read what Bellew says.” 

‘Blow Bellew!’’ said Carnehan. ‘‘Dan, they’re 
an all-fired lot of heathens, but this book here 
says they think they’re related to us English.” 

I smoked while. the men pored over Raverty, 
Wood, the maps and the Encyclopedia. 

‘‘There is no use your waiting,’ said Dravot, 
politely. ‘‘It’s about four. o’clock now. We'll 
go before six o’clock if you want to sleep. and we 
won't steal any of the papers. Don’t you sit up. 
We’re two harmless lunatics, and if you come, 


16 


The Man Who Would Be King 


to-morrow evening, down to the Serai we'll say 
good-by to you.” 

‘““You are two fools,’ I answered. ‘‘ You'll 
be turned back at the Frontier or cut up the 
minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you 
want any money or a recommendation down- 
country? I can help you to the chance of work 
next week.” 

““Next week we shall be hard at werk our- 
selves, thank you,” said Dravot. ‘“‘It isn’t so 
easy being a King as it looks. When we've got 
our Kingdom in going order we'll let you know, 
and you can come up and help us to govern it.” 

‘“Would two lunatics make a Contrack like 
that?’ said Carnehan, with subdued pnide, 
showing me a greasy half-sheet of note-paper on 
which was written the following. I copied it, 
then and there, as a curiosity :-— 

This Contract between me and you persuing 
witnesseth in the name of God—Amen and so 
forth. 

(One) That me and you will setile this matter 

together: i.e., to be Kings of Kajiristan. 

(Two) That you and me will not while this 
matter is being settled, look at any 
Liquor, nor any Woman black, white 
or brown, so as to get mixed up with 
one or the other harmful. 

(Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity 
and Discretion, and if one of us gets 
into trouble the other will stay by him. 

Signed by you and me this day. 

Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan, 
Daniel Dravot. 
Both Gentlemen at Large. 


t7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


‘“There was no need for the last article,’ said 
Carnehan, blushing modestly; “‘but it looks 
regular. Now you know the sort of men that 
loafers are—we are loafers, Dan, until we get out 
of India—and do you think that we could sign 
a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest? 
We have kept away from the two things that 
make life worth having.” 

“You won’t enjoy your lives much longer 
if you are going to try this idiotic adventure. 
Don’t set the office on fire,” I said, ‘‘and go away 
before nine o’clock.”’ 

I left them still poring over the maps and 
making notes on the back of the ‘‘Contrack.”’ 
‘Be sure to come down to’ the Serai to-morrow,”’ 
were their parting words. 

The Kumharsen Serai is the great four- 
square sink of humanity where the strings of 
camels and horses from the North load and 
unload. All the nationalities of Central Asia 
may be found there, and most of the folk of 
India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet 
Bengal and Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth. 
You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy- 
cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep, and musk 
in the Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange 
things for nothing. In the afternoon I went 
down there to see whether my friends intended 
to keep their word or were lying about drunk. 

A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and 
rags stalked up to me, gravely twisting a child’s 
paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant, 


18 


The Man Who Would Be King 


bending under the load of a crate of mud toys. 
The two were loading up two camels, and the 
inhabitants of the Serai watched them with 
shrieks of laughter. 

““The priest is mad,” said a horse-dealer to 
me. ‘He is going up to Kabul to sell toys to 
the Amir. He will either be raised to honour or 
have his head cut off. He came in here this 
morning and has been behaving madly ever 
since.” 

“The witless are under the protection of 
God,” stammered a flat-cheeked Usbeg in 
broken Hindi. ‘They foretell future events.” 

“Would they could have foretold that my 
caravan would have been ‘cut up by the Shin- 
waris almost’ within shadow of the Pass!”’ 
grunted the Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana 
trading-house whose goods had been feloniously 
diverted into the hands of other robbers just 
across the Border, and whose misfortunes were 
the laughing-stock of the bazaar. ‘‘Ohé, priest, 
whence come you and whither do you go?” 

““From Roum have I come,’’ shouted the 
priest, waving his whirligig; ‘‘from Roum, blown 
by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea! 
O thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir 
Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who will 
take the Protected of God to the North to 
sell charms that are never still to the Amir? 
The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall 
sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while 
they are away, of the men who give me place in 


19 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper 
the King of the Roos with a golden slipper with 
a silver heel? The protection of Pir Kahn be 
upon his labours!’’ He spread out the skirts of 
his gaberdine and pirouetted bewre the lines 
of tethered horses. 

‘There starts a caravan from Peshawar to 
Kabul in twenty days, Huzrut,” said the Eusufzai 
trader. ‘My camels go therewith. Do thou 
also go and bring us good luck.” 

‘““T will go even now!” shouted the priest. 
“TI will depart upon my winged camels, and be 
at Peshawar in a day! Ho! MHazar Muir 
Khan.” he yelled to his servant, “ drive out the 
camels, but let me first mount my own.” 

He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, 
and turning round to me, cried:— 

‘‘Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the 
road, and I will sell thee a charm—an amulet 
that shall make thee King of Kafiristan.” 

Then the light broke upon me, and I followed 
the two camels out of the Serai till we reached 
open road and the priest halted. 

“What d’ you think o’ that?” said he in 
English. ‘‘Carnehan can’t talk their patter, so 
I've made him my servant. He makes a 
handsome servant. ’Tisn’t for nothing that 
I’ve been: knocking about the country for 
fourteen years. Didn’t I do that talk neat? 
We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar till 
we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if we 
can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into 


20 


The Man Who Would Be King 


Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor! 
Put your hand under the camel-bags and tell 
me what you feel.”’ : 

I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and 
another. 

“Twenty of ’em,” said Dravot, placidly. 

“Twenty of ‘em, and ammunition to corre- 
spond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls.” 

“Heaven help you if, you are caught with 
those things!”’ I said. ‘‘ A Martini is worth her 
weight in silver among the Pathans.” 

“ Fifteen hundred rupees of capital—every 
rupee we could beg, borrow, or steal—are invested 
on these two camels,” said Dravot. ‘‘We won’t 
get caught. We’re going through the Khaiber 
with a regular caravan. Who'd touch a poor 
mad priest?”’ 

“Have you got everything you want?” I 
asked, overcome with astonishment. 

“Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a 
momento of your kindness, Brother. You did 
me a Service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. 
Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying 
is.’ I slipped a small charm compass from 
my ‘watch-chain and handed it up to the priest. 

‘‘Good-bye,” said Dravot, giving me his . 
hand cautiously. “It’s the last time we'll 
shake hands with an Englishman these many 
days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan,” he 
cried, as the second camel passed me. t 

Carnehan looked down and shook hands. 
Then the camels passed away along the dusty 


’ 


21 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye 
could detect no failure in the disguises. The 
scene in the Serai attested that they were 
complete to the native mind. There was just 
the chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot 
would be able to wander through Afghanistan 
without detection. But, beyond, they would 
find death, certain and awful death. . 

Ten days later a native friend of mine, giving 
me the news of the day from Peshawar, wound 
up his letter with:—‘‘ There has been much 
laughter here on account of a certain mad priest 
who is going in his estimation to sell petty 
gauds and insignificant trinkets which he 
ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of 
Bokhara. He passed through Peshawar and 
associated himself to the Second Summer 
caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants 
are pleased because through superstition they 
imagine that such mad fellows bring good- 
fortune.” 

‘The two then, were beyond the Border. I 
would have prayed for them, but, that night, a 
real King died in Europe, and demanded an 
obituary notice. | 


The wheel of the world swings through the 
same phases again and again. Summer passed 
and winter thereafter, and came and passed 
again. The daily paper continued and I with it, 
and upon the third summer there fell a hot night, 
a night-issue, and a strained waiting for some- 


22 


The Man Who Would Be King 


thing to be telegraphed from the other side of 
the world, exactly as had happened before. A 
few great men had died in the past two years, 
the machines worked with more clatter, and some 
of the trees in the Office garden were a few feet 
taller. But that was all the difference. 

I passed over to the press-room, and went 
through just such a scene as I have already 
described. The nervous tension was stronger 
than it had been two years before, and I felt 
the heat more acutely. At three o’clock I 
cried, ‘“‘Print off,’ and turned to go, when 
there crept to my chair what was left of a man. 
He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk 
between his shoulders, and he moved his feet 
one over the other like a bear. I could hardly 
see whether he walked or crawled—this rag- 
wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by 
name, crying that he was comeback. “Can you 
give me a drink?” he whimpered. ‘‘For the 
Lord’s sake, give me a drink!”’ 

I went back to the office, the man following 
with groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp. 

“Don’t you know me?” he gasped, dropping 
into a chair, and he turned his drawn face, sur- 
mounted by a shock of gray hair, to the light. 

I looked at him intently. Once before had 
I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an 
inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I 
could not tell where. 

“‘T don’t know you,” I said, handing him the 
whisky. ‘‘What can I do for you?” 


23 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered 
in spite of the suffocating heat. 

‘‘T’ve come back,” he repeated; ‘“‘and I was 
the King of Kafiristan—me and Dravot— 
crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled 
it—you setting there and giving us the books. 
I am Peachey—Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan, 
and you’ve been setting here ever since— 
Lord!”’ 

I was more than a little astonished, and ex-. 
pressed my feelings accordingly. 

“It’s true,’ said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, 
nursing his feet which were wrapped in rags. 
““True as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns 
upon our heads—me and Dravot—poor Dan— 
oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take 
advice, not though I begged of him!”’ 

‘“Take the whisky,” I said, ‘‘and take your 
own time. Tell me all you can recollect of 
everything from beginning to end. You got 
across the border on your camels, Dravot 
dressed as a mad priest and you his servant. 
Do you remember that?” 

“TI ain’t mad—yet, but I will be that way 
soon. Of course I remember. Keep looking 
at me, or maybe my words will go all to pieces. 
Keep looking at me in my eyes and don’t say 
anything.” 

I leaned forward and looked into his face 
as steadily as I could. He dropped one hand 
upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. 
It was twisted like a bird’s claw, and upon 


24 


The Man Who Would Be King 


the back was a ragged, red, diamond-shaped 
scar. 

‘“No, don’t look there. Look at me, said 
Carnehan. 

‘““That comes afterwards, but for the Lord’s 
sake don’t distrack me. We left with that 
caravan, me and Dravot, playing all sorts of 
antics to amuse the people we were with. Dravot 
used to make us laugh in the evenings when all 
the people was cooking their dinners—-cooking 
their) dinners,,” and)..." >! what’! did” ‘they 
do then? They lit little fires with sparks that 
went into Dravot’s beard, and we all laughed— 
fit to die. Little red fires they was, going into 
Dravot’s big red beard—so funny.”’ His eyes 
left mine and he smiled foolishly. 

“You went as far as Jagdallak with that 
caravan,’ I said at a venture, ‘‘after you had 
lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you turned 
_ off to try to get into Kafiristan.”’ 

‘‘No, we didn’t neither. What are you talking 
about? We turned off before Jagdallak, because 
we heard the roads was good. But they wasn’t 
good enough for our two camels—mine and 
Dravot’s. When we left the caravan, Dravot 
took off all his clothes and mine too, and said 
we would be heathen, because the Kafirs didn’t 
allow Mohammedans to talk to them. So we 
dressed betwixt and between, and such a sight 
as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to 
see again. He burned half his beard, and slung 
a sheep-skin over his shoulder, and shaved his 


25 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


head into patterns. He shaved mine, too, and 
made me wear outrageous things to look like 
a heathen. That was in a most mountainous 
country, and our camels couldn’t go along any 
more because of the mountains. They were 
tall and black, and coming home I saw them 
fight like wild goats—there are lots of goats in 
Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never 
keep still, no more than the goats. Always 
fighting they are, and don’t let you sleep at night. 
‘“Take. some more whisky,’ I said, very 
slowly. ‘‘What did you and Daniel Dravot do 
when the camels could go no farther because of 
the rough roads that led into Kafiristan?”’ 
‘“What did which do?’ There was a party 
called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that was 
with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He 
died out there in the cold. Slap from the bridge 
fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the air 
like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the 
Amir—No; they was two for three ha’pence, 
those whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and 
woful sore. And then these camels were no use, 
and Peachey said to Dravot—‘For the Lord’s 
sake, let’s get out of this before our heads are 
chopped off,’ and with that they killed the 
camels all among the mountains, not having 
anything in particular to eat, but first they 
took off the boxes with the guns and the am- 
munition, till two men came along driving four 
mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them, 
singing, ‘Sell me four mules.’ Says the first man, 


26 


The Man Who Would Be King 


‘If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich 
enough to rob;’ but before ever he could put his 
hand to his knife, Dravot breaks his neck over 
his knee, and the other party runs away. So 
Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that 
was taken off the camels, and together we starts 
forward into those bitter cold mountainous 
parts, and never a road broader than the back 
of your hand.” 

He paused for a moment, while I asked him 
if he could remember the nature of the country 
through which he had journeyed. 

“IT am telling you as straight as I can, but my 
head isn’t as good as it might be. They drove 
nails through it to make me hear better how 
Dravot died. The country was mountainous 
and the mules were most contrary, and the 
inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They 
went up and up, and down and down, and that 
other party Carnehan, was imploring of Dravot 
not to sing and whistle so loud, for fear of 
bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. : But 
Dravot says that if a King couldn’t sing it wasn’t 
worth being King, and whacked the mules over 
the rump, and never took ne heed for ten cold 
days. We came to a big level valley all among 
the mountains, and the mules were near dead, 
so we killed them, not having anything in 
special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the 
boxes, and played odd and even with the cart- 
ridges that was jolted out. 

“Then ten men with bows and arrows ran 


=i 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


down that valley, chasing twenty men with 
bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. 
They was fair men—fairer than you or me— 
with yellow hair and remarkable well built. 
Says Dravot, unpacking the guns—‘This is 
the beginning of the business. We'll fight for 
the ten men,’ and with that he fires two rifles at 
the twenty men, and drops one of them at two 
hundred yards from the rock where we was 
sitting. The other men began to run, but 
Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes picking 
them off at all ranges, up and down the valley. 
Then we goes up to the ten men that had run 
across the snow too, and they fires a footy little 
arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their 
heads and they all falls down flat. Then he 
walks over them and kicks them, and then he 
lifts them up and: shakes hands all around to 
make them friendly like. He calls them and 
gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his 
hand for all the world as though he was King 
already. They takes the boxes and him across 
the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on 
the top, where there was half a dozen big stone 
idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest—a fellow 
they call Imbra—and lays a rifle and a cartridge 
at his feet, rubbing his nose respectful with his 
own nose, patting him on the head, and saluting 
in front of it. He turns round to the men and 
nods his head, and says:—‘That’s all right. [’m © 
in the know too, and these old jim-jams are my 
friends.’ Then he opens his mouth and points 


28 


The Man Who Would Be King 


down it, and when the first man brings him food, 
he says—‘ No’; and when the second man brings 
him food, he says—‘No’; but when one of the 
old priests and the boss of the village brings him 
food, he says—‘Yes’; very haughty, and eats 
it slow. That was how we came to our first 
village, without any trouble, just as though we 
had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled 
from one of those damned rope-bridges, you see, 
and you couldn’t expect a man to laugh much 
after that.” 

‘‘Take some more’ whisky and go on,” I 


said. ‘‘That was the first village you came 
into. How did you get to be King?”’ 
“T wasn’t King,’ said Carnehan. ‘‘Dravot 


he was the King, and a handsome man he looked 
with the gold crown on his head and all. Him 
and the other party stayed in that village, and 
every morning Dravot sat by the side of old 
Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. 
That was Dravot’s order. Then a lot of men 
came into the valley, and Carnehan and Dravot 
picks them off with the rifles before they knew 
where they was, and runs down into the valley 
and up again the other side, and finds another 
village, same as the first one, and the people all 
falls down flat on their faces, and Dravot says: 
—‘Now what is the trouble between you two 
villages?’ and the people points to a woman, 
as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and 
Dravot takes her back to the first village and 
counts up the dead—eight there was. For each 


ao 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the 
ground and waves his arms like a whirligig and, 
‘That’s) all. right,')./says)) he, sai he aapiesand 
Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by 
the arm and walks them down into the valley, and 
shows them how to scratch a line with a spear 
right down the valley, and gives each a sod of 
turf from both sides o’ the line. Then all the 
people comes down and shouts like the devil 
and all, and Dravot says, ‘Go and dig the land, 
and be fruitful and multiply,’ which they did, 
though they didn’t understand. Then we 
asks the names of things in their lngo—bread 
and water and fire and idols and such, and 
Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the 
idol, and says he must sit there and judge the 
people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be 
shot. 

‘‘Next week they was all turning up the land 
in the valley as quiet as bees and much prettier, 
and the priests heard all the complaints and told 
Dravot in dumb show what it was about. 
‘That’s just the beginning,’ says Dravot. 
“They think we’re gods.’ He and Carnehan 
picks out twenty good men and shows them how 
to click off a rifle, and form fours, and advance 
in line, and they was very pleased to do so, and 
clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out 
his pipe and his baccy-pouch and leaves one at 
one village, and one at the other, and off we two 
goes to see what was to be done in the next 
valley. That was all rock, and there was a 


30 


The Man Who Would Be King 


little village there, and Carnehan says, ‘Send 
"em to the old valley to plant,’ and takes ’em 
there and gives ’em some land that wasn’t took 
before. They were a poor lot, and we blooded 
’em with a kid before letting ’em into the new 
Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and 
then they settled down quiet, and Carnehan went 
back to Dravot who had got into another 
valley, all snow and ice and most mountainous. 
There was no people there and the Army got 
afraid, so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes on 
till he finds some people in a village, and the 
Army explains that unless the people wants to 
be killed they had better not shoot their little 
matchlocks, for they had matchlocks. We 
makes friends with the priest, and I stays there 
alone with two of the Army, teaching the men 
how to drill, and a thundering big Chief comes 
across the snow with kettledrums and horns 
twanging, because he heard there was a new 
god kicking about. Carnehan sights for the 
brown of the men half a mile across the snow and 
wings one of them. Then he sends a message 
to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, 
he must come and shake hands with me and 
leave his arms behind. The Chief comes alone 
first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and 
whirls his arms about, same as Dravot used, and 
very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes 
my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to 
the Chief, and asks him in dumb show if he 
had an enemy he hated. ‘I have,’ says the 


31 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his 
men, and sets the two of the Army to show 
them drill and at the end of two weeks the men 
can manceuvre about as well as Volunteers. 
So he marches with the Chief to a great big 
plain on the top of a mountain, and the Chief's 
men rushes into a village and takes it; we three 
Martinis firing into the brown of the enemy. 
So we took that village too, and I gives the Chief 
a rag from my coat and says, ‘Occupy till I 
come’: which was scriptural. By way of a 
reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen 
hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him 
standing on the snow, and all the people falls 
flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter to 
Dravot, where he be by land or by sea.”’ 

At the risk of throwing the creature out of 
train I interrupted, ‘‘How could you write a 
letter up yonder?”’ 

‘‘The letter ?—-Oh!—The letter! Keep looking 
at me between the eyes, please. It was a 
string-talk letter, that we’d learned the way of 
it from a blind beggar in the Punjab.” 

I remember that there had once come to the 
office a blind man with a knotted twig and a 
piece of string which he wound round the twig 
according to some cypher of hisown. He could, 
after the lapse of days or hours, repeat the 
sentence which he had reeled up. He had 
reduced the alphabet to eleven primitive sounds; 
and tried to teach me his method, but failed. 

“‘I sent that letter to Dravot,” said Carnehan; 


32 


The Man Who Would Be King 


“and told him to come back because this 
Kingdom was growing too big for me to handle, 
and then I struck for the first valley, to see how 
the priests were working. They called the 
village we took along with the Chief, Bashkai, 
and the first village we took, Er-Heb. The priest 
at Er-Heb was doing all right, but they had a 
lot of pending cases about land to show me, and 
some men from another village had been firing 
arrows at night. I went out and looked fcr 
that village and fired four rounds at it from a 
thousand yards. That used all the cartridges I 
cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who 
had been away two or three months, and I kept 
my people quiet. 

‘‘One morning I heard the devil’s own noise 
of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot marche: 
down the hill with his Army and a tail of hundreds 
of men, and, which was the most amazing—a 
great gold crown on his head. ‘My Gord, 
Carnehan,’ says Daniel, ‘this is a tremenjus 
business; and we’ve got the whole country as far 
as it’s worth having. I am the son of Alexander 
by Queen Semiramis, and you’re my younger 
brother and a god too! It’s the biggest thing 
we've ever seen. I’ve been marching and 
fighting for six weeks with the Army, and every 
footy little village for fifty miles has come in 
rejoiceful; and more than that, I’ve got the key 
of the whole show, as you'll see, and I’ve got a 
crown for you! I told ’em to make two of ’em 
at a place called Shu, where the gold lies in the 


33 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


rock like suet in mutton. Gold I’ve seen, and 
turquoise I’ve kicked out of the cliffs, and 
there’s garnets in the sands of the river, and 
here’s a chunk of amber that a man brought me. 
Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.’ 

‘‘One of the men opens a black hair bag and 
I slips the crown on. It was too small and too 
heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Hammered 
gold it was—five pound weight, like a hoop of a 
barrel. 

‘‘*Peachey,’ says Dravot, ‘we don’t want to 
fight no more. The Craft’s the trick so help me!’ 
and he brings forward that same Chief that 
I left at Bashkai—Billy Fish we called him 
afterwards, because he was so like Billy Fish 
that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on the 
Bolan in the old days. ‘Shake hands with 
him,’ says Dravot, and I shook hands and nearly 
dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. 
I said nothing, but tried him with the Fellow 
Craft Grip. He answers, all right, and I tried 
the Master’s Grip, but that was a slip. ‘A 
Fellow Craft he is!’ I says to Dan. ‘Does he 
know. the word?’ ‘He does,’ says Dan, ‘and 
all the priests know. It’s a miracle! The 
Chiefs and the priest can work a Fellow Craft 
Lodge in a way that’s very like ours, and they’ve 
cut the marks on the rocks, but they don’t 
know the Third Degree, and they’ve come to 
find out. It’s Gord’s Truth.. I’ve known these 
long years that the Afghans knew up to the 
Fellow Craft Degree, but this is a miracle 


34 


The Man Who Would Be King 


A god and a Grand-Master of the Craft am I, and 
a Lodge in th® Third Degree I will open, and 
we'll raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the 
villages.’ 

““Tt’s against all the law,’ I says, ‘holding a 
Lodge without warrant from any one; and we 
never held office in any lodge.’ 

‘“““Tt’s a master-stroke of policy,’ says Dravot. 
‘It means running the country as easy as a four- 
wheeled bogy on a down grade. We can’t stop 
to inquire now, or they'll turn against us. I’ve 
forty Chiefs at my heel, and passed and raised 
according to their merit they shall be. Billet 
these men on the villages and see that we run up 
a Lodge of some kind. The temple of Imbra 
will do for the Lodge-room. The women 
must make aprons as you show them. I'll 
hold a levee of Chiefs to-night and Lodge to- 
morrow.’ 

“IT was fair run off my legs, but I wasn’t 
such a fool as not to see what a pull this Craft 
business gave us. I showed the priests’ families 
how to make aprons of the degrees, but for 
Dravot’s apron the blue border and marks was 
made of turquoise lumps on white hide, not 
cloth. We took a great square stone in the 
temple for the Master’s chair, and little stones 
for the officers’ chairs, and painted the black 
pavement with white squares, and did what we 
could to make things regular. 

‘“At the levee which was held that night on 
the hillside with big bonfires, Dravot gives out 


She 


’ 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


that him and me were gods and sons of Alexander, 
and Past Grand-Masters in the Craft, and was 
come to make Kafiristan a country where every 
man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, and 
specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round 
to shake hands, and they was so hairy and white 
and fair it was just shaking hands with old 
friends. We gave them names according as 
they was like men we had known in India— 
Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan that 
was Bazaar-master when I was at Mhow, and 
so on, and so on. 

‘‘The most amazing miracle was at Lodge 
next night. One of the old priests was watching 
us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew we'd. 
have to fudge the Ritual, and I didn’t know 
what the men knew. The old priest was a 
stranger come in from beyond the village of 
Bashkai. The minute Dravot puts on the 
Master’s apron that the girls had made for him, 
the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries 
to overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on 
‘It’s all up now,’ I says. ‘That comes of 
meddling with the Craft without warrant!’ 
Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten 
priests took and tilted over the Grand-Master’s 
chair—which was to say the stone of Imbra. 
The priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it 
to clear away the black dirt, and presently he 
shows all the other priests the Master’s Mark, 
same as was on Dravot’s apron, cut into the 
stone. Not even the priests of the temple of 


36 


The Man Who Would Be King 


Imbra knew it was there. The old chap falls 
flat on his face at Dravot’s feet and kisses ’em. 
‘Luck again,’ says Dravot, across the Lodge to 
me, ‘they say it’s the missing Mark that no one 
could understand the why of. We’re more 
than safe now.’ Then he bangs the butt of his 
gun fora gavel and says——‘By virtue of the 
- authority vested in me by my own right hand 
and the help of Peachey, I declare myself Grand- 
Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in this 
the Mother Lodge o’ the country, and King of 
Kafiristan equally -with Peachey!’ At that he 
puts on his crown and I puts on mine—I was 
doing Senior Warden—and we opens the Lodge 
in most’ample form. It was a amazing miracle! 
The priests moved in Lodge through the first 
two degrees almost without telling, as if the 
memory was coming back to them. After that, 
Peachey and Dravot raised such as was worthy 
—high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages. 
Billy Fish was the first, and I can tell you we 
scared the soul out of him. It was not in any 
way according to Ritual, but it served our turn. 
We didn’t raise more than ten of the biggest men 
because we didn’t want to make the Degree 
common. And they was clamouring to be 
raised. 

““In another six months,’ says Dravot, 
‘we'll hold another Communication and see 
how you are working. Then he asks them 
about their villages, and learns that they was 
fighting one against the other and were fair 


37 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


sick and tired of it. And when they wasn’t 
doing that they was fighting with the Moham- 
medans. ‘You can fight those when they come 
into our country,’ says Dravot. ‘Tell off every 
tenth man of your tribes for a Frontier guard, 
and send two hundred at a time to this valley 
to be drilled. Nobody is going to be shot or 
speared any more so long as he does well, and I 
know that you won’t cheat me because you’re 
white people—sons of Alexander—and not like 
common, black Mohammedans. You are my 
people and by God,’ says he, running off into 
English at the end—‘I’ll make a damned fine 
Nation of you, or I'll die in the making!’ 

“I can’t tell all we did for the next six months 
because Dravot did a lot I couldn’t see the 
hang of, and he learned their lingo in a way I 
never could. My work was to help the people 
plough, and now and again to go out with some 
of the Army and see what the other villages 
were doing, and make ’em throw rope-bridges 
across the ravines which cut up the country 
horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when 
he walked up and down in the pine wood pulling 
that bloody red beard of his with both fists I 
knew he was thinking plans I could not advise 
him about, and I just waited for orders. 

“But Dravot never showed me disrespect 
before the people. They were afraid of me 
and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was 
the best of friends with the priests and the 
Chiefs, but any one could come across the hills 


38 


The Man Who Would Be King 


with a complaint and Dravot would hear him 
out fair, and call four priests together and say 
what was to be done. He used to call in Billy 
Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from 
Shu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum—it 
was like enough to his real name—and hold 
councils with ’em when there was any fighting 
to be done in small villages. That was his 
Council of War, and the four priests of Bashkai, 
Shu, Khawak, and Madora was his Privy 
Council. Between the lot of ’°em they sent me, 
with forty men and twenty rifles, and sixty 
men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband 
country to buy those hand-made Martini 
rifles, that come out of the Amir’s workshops 
at Kabul, from one of the Amir’s Herati regi- 
ments that would have sold the very teeth out 
of their mouths for turquoises. 

“I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave 
the Governor the pick of my baskets for hush- 
money, and bribed the colonel of the regiment 
some more, and, between the two and the tribes- 
people, we got more than a hundred hand-made 
Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that’ll 
throw to six hundred yards, and forty manloads 
of very bad ammunition for the rifles. I came 
back with what I had, and distributed ’em 
among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me to 
drill. Dravot was too busy to attend to those 
things, but the old Army that we first made 
helped me, and we turned out five hundred men 
that could drill, and two hundred that knew 


39 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


how to hold arms pretty straight. Even those 
cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle 
to them. Dravot talked big about powder- 
shops and factories, walking up and down in the 
pine wood when the winter was coming on. 

“““T won’t make a Nation,’ says he. ‘Ill 
make an Empire! These men aren’t niggers; 
they’re English! Look at their eyes—look at 
their mouths. Look at the way they stand up. 
They sit on chairs in their own houses. They’re 
the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and they’ve 
grown to be English. Ill take a census in the 
spring if the priests don’t get frightened. There - 
must be a fair two million of ’em in these hills. 
The villages are full o’ little children. Two 
million people—two hundred and fifty thousand 
fighting men—and all English! They only 
want the rifles and a little drilling. Two 
hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to 
cut in on Russia’s right flank when she tries for 
India! Peachey, man,’ he says, chewing his 
beard in great hunks, ‘we shall be Emperors— 
Emperors of the Earth! Rajah Brooke will be 
a suckling to us. I’ll treat with the Viceroy on 
equal terms. I'll ask him to send me twelve 
picked English—twelve that I know of—to 
help us governa bit. There’s Mackray, Sergeant- 
pensioner at Segowli—many’s the good dinner 
he’s given me, and his wife a pair of trousers. 
There’s Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail; 
there’s hundreds that I could lay my hand 
on if I was in India. The Viceroy shall do it 


40 


The Man Who Would Be King 


for me. I'll send a man through in the spring 
for those men, and I'll write for a dispensation 
from the Grand Lodge for what I’ve done as 
Grand-Master. That—and all the Sniders that'll 
he thrown out when the native troops in India 
take up the Martini. They’ll be worn smocth, 
but they'll do for fighting in these hills. Twelve 
English, a hundred thousand Sniders run through 
the Amir’s country in driblets—I’d be content 
with twenty thousand in one year—and we'd 
be an Empire. When everything was ship- 
shape, I’d hand over the crown—this crown 
I’m wearing now—to Queen Victoria on my 
knees, and she’d say—‘‘Rise up, Sir Daniel 
Dravot.”’ Oh, it’s big! It’s big, I tell you! 
But there’s so much to be done in every place— 
Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere else.’ 

“What is it?’ I says. ‘There are no more 
men coming in to be drilled this autumn. Look 
at those fat, black clouds. They’re bringing 
the snow.’ 

““It isn’t that,’ says Daniel, putting his 
hand very hard on my shoulder; ‘and I don’t 
wish to say anything that’s against you, for no 
other living man would have followed me and 
made me what I am as you have done. You're 
a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the people 
know you; but—it’s a big country, and some- 
how you can’t help me, Peachey, in the way I 
want to be helped.’ 

“““Go to your blasted priests, then!’ I said, 
and I was sorry when. I made that remark, 


41 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talking 
so superior when I'd drilled all the men, and 
done all he told me. 

“Don’t let’s quarrel, Peachey,’ says Daniel 
without cursing. ‘You’re a King too, and the 
half of this Kingdom is yours; but can’t you see, 
Peachey, we want cleverer men than us now— 
_ three or four of ’em that we can scatter about 
for our Deputies? It’s a hugeous great State, 
and I can’t always tell the right thing to do, 
and I haven’t time for all I want to do, and 
here’s the winter coming on and all.’ He put 
half his beard into his mouth, and it was as red 
as the gold of his crown. 

““*Pm sorry, Daniel,’ says I. ‘I’ve done all I. 
could. I’ve drilled the men, and shown the 
people how to stack their oats better, and 
I’ve brought in those tinware rifles from Ghor- 
band—but I know what you’re driving at. I 
take it Kings always feel oppressed that way.’ 

“““There’s- another thing too,’ says Dravot, 
walking up and down. ‘The winter’s coming 
and these people won’t be giving much trouble, 
and if they do we can’t move about. I want a 
wife.’ 

‘“““FRor Gord’s sake leave the women alone!’ 
I says. ‘We’ve both got all the work we can, 
though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack, 
and keep elear o’ women.’ 

“““The Contrack only lasted till such time as 
- we was Kings; and Kings we have been these 
months past,’ says Dravot, weighing his crown 


42 


The Man Who Would Be King 


in his hand. ‘You go get a wife too, Peachey— 
a nice, strappin’, plump girl that’ll keep you 
warm in the winter. They’re prettier than 
English girls, and we can take the pick of ’em. 
Boil ’em once or twice in hot water, and they’ll 
come as fair as chicken and ham.’ 

““*Don’t tempt me!’ I says. ‘I will not have 
any dealings with a woman not till we are a 
dam’ side more settled than we are now. I’ve 
been doing the work o’ two men, and you’ve 
been doing the work o’ three. Let’s lie off a 
bit, and see if we can get some better tobacco 
from Afghan country and run in some good 
liquor; but no women.’ 

“““Who’s talking o’ women?’ says Dravot. 
‘I said wife—a Queen to breed a King’s son 
for the King. A Queen out of the strongest 
tribe, that’ll make them your blood-brothers, 
and that’ll lie by your side and tell you all the 
people thinks about you and their own affairs. 
That’s what I want.’ 

““Do you remember that Bengali woman I 
kept at Mogul Serai when I was plate-layer?’ 
says I. ‘A fat lot 0’ good she was to me. She 
taught me the lingo and one or two other things; 
but what happened? She ran away with the 
Station Master’s servant and half my month’s 
pay. Then she turned up at Dadur Junction in 
tow of a half-caste, and had the impidence to 
say I was her husband—all among the drivers 
of the running-shed!’ 

‘*“We’'ve done with that,’ says Dravot. ‘These 


43 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


women are whiter than you or me, and a Queen 
I will have for the winter months.’ 

‘“*For the last time o’ asking, Dan, do not,’ 
I says. ‘It'll only bring us harm. The Bible 
says that Kings ain’t to waste their strength on 
women, specially when they’ve got a new, raw 
Kingdom to work over. 

“““FRor the last time of answering, I will,’ said 
Dravot, and he went away through the pine- 
trees looking like a big red devil. The low sun 
hit his crown and beard on one side, and the two 
blazed like hot coals. 

“But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan 
thought. He put it before the Council, and 
there was no answer till Billy Fish said that 
he’d better ask the girls. Dravot damned 
them all round. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ 
he shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. ‘Am 
I a dog or am I not enough of a man for your 
wenches? Haven’t I put the shadow of my 
hand over this country? Who stopped the 
last Afghan raid?’ It was me really, but 
Dravot was too angry to remember. ‘Who 
bought your guns? Who repaired the bridges? 
Who’s the Grand-Master of the sign cut in the 
stone?’ and he thumped his hand on the block 
that he used to sit on in Lodge, and at Council, 
which opened like Lodge always. Billy Fish 
said nothing and no more did the others. “Keep 
_your hair on, Dan,’ said I; ‘and ask the girls. 
That’s how it’s done at home, and these people 
are quite English.’ , 


44 


The Man Who Would Be King 


““*The marriage of a King is a matter of 
State,’ says Dan, in a white-hot rage, for he could 
feel, I hope, that he was going against his better 
mind. He walked out of the Council-room, 
and the others sat still, looking at the ground. 

‘**Billy Fish,’ says I to the Chief of Bashkai, 
‘what’s the difficulty here? A straight answer 
to a true friend.’ ‘You know,’ says Billy Fish. 
‘How should a man tell you who know every- 
thing? How can daughters of men marry gods 
or devils? It’s not proper.’ 

““T remembered something like that in the 
Bible; but if, after seeing us as long as they had, 
they still believed we were gods, it wasn’t for 
me to undeceive them. 

““A god can do anything,’ says I. ‘If the 
King is fond of a girl he’ll not let her die.’ ‘She'll 
have to,’ said Billy Fish. ‘There are all sorts 
of gods and devils in these mountains, and now 
and again a girl marries one of them and isn’t 
seen any more. Besides, you two know the 
Mark cut in the stone. Only the gods know 
that. We thought you were men till you showed 
the sign of the Master.’ 

““*T wished then that we had explained about 
the loss of the genuine secrets of a Master- 
Mason at the first go-off; but I said nothing. 
All that night there was a blowing of horns in a 
little dark temple half-way down the hill, and 
I heard a girl crying fit to die. One of the priests 
told us that she was being prepared to marry the 
King. 

45 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


““*T’ll have no nonsense of that kind,’ says 
Dan. ‘I don’t want to interfere with your 
customs, but I'll take my own wife.’ ‘The 
girl’s a little bit afraid,’ says the priest. ‘She 
thinks she’s going to die, and they are a-heartening 
of her up down in the temple.’ 

‘‘*Hearten her very tenderjaitaen, jeeys 
Dravot, ‘or I’ll hearten you with the butt of a 
gun so that you'll never want to be heartened 
again.’ He licked his lips, did Dan, and stayed 
up walking about more than half the night, 
thinking of the wife that he was going to get 
in the morning. I wasn’t any means comfort- 
able, for I knew that dealings with a woman in 
foreign parts, though you was a crowned King 
twenty times over, could not but be risky. I 
got up very early in the morning while Dravot - 
was asleep, and I saw the priests talking together 
in whispers, and the Chiefs talking together 
too, and they looked at me out of the corners 
of their eyes. 

‘“““What is up, Fish?’ I says to the Bashkai 
man, who was wrapped up in his furs and 
looking splendid to behold. 

““T can’t rightly say,’ says he; ‘but if you 
can induce the King to drop all this nonsense 
about marriage, you'll be doing him and me 
and yourself a great service.’ 

‘““*That I do believe,’ says I. ‘But sure, you 
know, Billy, as well as me, having fought against. 
and for us,.that the King and me are nothing 
more than two of the finest men that God 


46 


The Man Who Would Be King 


Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do as- 
sure you.’ 

““That may be,’ says Billy Fish, ‘and yet 
I should be sorry if it was.’ He sinks his head 
upon his great fur cloak for a minute and thinks. 
‘King’ says he, ‘be you man or god or devil, 
I'll stick by you to-day. I have twenty of my 
men with me, and they will follow me. We'll 
go to Bashkai until the storm blows over.’ 
“A little snow had fallen in the night, and 
everything was white except the greasy fat 
clouds that blew down and down from the 
north. Dravot came out with his crown on 
his head, swinging his arms and stamping his 
feet, and looking more pleased than Punch. 

‘“““Por the last time, drop it, Dan,’ says I in 
a whisper. ‘Billy Fish says that there will be 
a row.’ pe 

““A row among my people!’ says Dravot. 
‘Not much. Peachey, you’re a fool not to get 
a wife, too. Where’s the girl?’ says he with a 
voice as loud as the braying of a jackass. ‘Call 
up all the Chiefs and priests, and let the Emperor 
See if his wife suits him.’ 

““There was no need to call any one. They 
were all there leaning on their guns and spears. 
-round the clearing in the centre of the pine 
wood. A deputation of priests went down to 
the little temple to bring up the girl, and the 
horns blew up fit to wake the dead. Billy Fish 
saunters round and gets as close to Daniel as he 
could, and behind him stood his twenty men 


47 


Masterpieces of Fiction ~ 


with matchlocks. Not a man of them under 
six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind me 
was twenty men of the regular Army. Up 
comes the girl, and a strapping wench she was, 
covered with silver and turquoises but white as 
death, and looking back every minute at the 
priests. 

‘“*She’ll do,’ said Dan, looking her over. 
‘What’s to be afraid of, lass? Come and kiss 
me. He puts his arm round her. She shuts 
her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and down 
goes her face in the side of Dan’s flaming red 
beard. 

‘“““The slut’s bitten me!’ says he, clapping his 
hand to his neck, and, sure enough, his hand 
was red with blood. Billy Fish and two of his 
matchlock-men catches hold of Dan by the 
shoulders and drags him into the Bashkai lot, 
while the priests howls in their, lingo,—‘ Neither 
god nor devil butaman!’ Iwas all taken aback, 
for a priest cut at me in front, and the Army 
behind began firing into the Bashkai men. 

“God A-mighty!’ says Dan. ‘What is the 
meaning o’ this?’ 

“““Come back! Come away!’ says Billy 
Fish. ‘Ruin and Mutiny is the matter. We'll 
break for Bashkai if we can.’ 

“I tried to give some sort of orders to my 
men—the men o’ the regular Army—but it 
was no use, so I fired into the brown of ‘em 
with an English Martini and drilled three 
beggars in a line. The valley was full of shout- 


48 


The Man Who Would Be King 


ing, howling creatures, and every soul was 
shrieking, ‘Not a god nor a devil but only a 
man!’ The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy Fish 
all they were worth, but their matchlocks 
wasn’t half as good as the Kabul breech-loaders, 
and four of them dropped. Dan was bellowing 
like a bull, for he was very wrathy; and Billy 
Fish had a hard job to prevent him running 
out at the crowd. 

“““We can’t stand,’ says Billy Fish. ‘Make 
a run for it down the valley! The whole place 
is against us.’ The matchlock-men ran, and 
we went down the valley in spite of Dravot’s 
protestations. He was swearing horribly and 
crying out that he was a King. The priests 
rolled great stones on us, and the regular Army 
fired hard, and there wasn’t more than six men, 
not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that came 
down to the bottom of the valley alive. 

““Then they stopped firing and the horns in 
the temple blew again. ‘Come away—for 
Gord’s sake come away!’ says Billy Fish. 
“They'll send runners out to all the villages 
before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect 
you there, but I can’t do anything now.’ 

‘““My own notion is that Dan began to go 
mad in his head that hour. He stared up and 
down like a stuck pig. Then he was all for 
walking back alone and killing the priests with 
his bare hands; which he could have done. 
‘An Emperor am I,’ says Daniel, ‘and next year 
I shall be a Knight of the Queen.’ 


49 


Masterpieces of Fiction — 


*“fAll right, Dan,’ says I; ‘but come along 
now while there’s time.’ 7 

‘““Tt’s your fault,’ says he, ‘for not looking 
after your Army better. There was mutiny in 
the midst, and you didn’t know—you damned 
engine-driving, plate-laying, missionary’s-pass- 
hunting hound!’ He sat upon a rock and 
called me every foul name he could lay tongue 
to. I was too heartsick to care, though it was 
all his foolishness that brought the smash. 

““T’m sorry; Dan,’ says! 1,3 but ttpere cae 
accounting for natives. This business is our 
Fifty-Seven. Maybe we'll make something out 
of it yet, when we’ve got to Bashkai.’ 

‘“*Let’s get to Bashkai, then} says. Dan; 
‘and, by God, when I come back here again I’ll 
sweep the valley so there isn’t a bug in a blanket 
left? 

‘We walked all that day, and all that night 
Dan was stumping up and down on the snow, 
chewing his beard and muttering to himself. 

‘'“There’s: no hope o’ getting clear,’ said 
Billy Fish. ‘The priests will have sent runners 
to the villages to say that you are only men. 
Why didn’t you stickeon as gods till things was 
more settled? I’m a dead man,’ says Billy Fish, 
and he throws himself down on the snow and 
begins to pray to his gods. 

““Next morning we was in a cruel baa country 
—all up and down, no level ground at all, and 
no food either. The six Bashkai men looked 
at Billy Fish hungry-wise as if they wanted to 


50 


The Man Who Would Be King 


ask something, but they said never a word. At 
noon we came to the top of a flat mountain all 
covered with snow, and when we climbed up 
into it, behold, there was an army in position 
waiting in the middle! 

““The runners have been very quick,’ says 
Billy Fish, with-a little bit of a laugh. ‘They 
are waiting for us.’ 

‘“‘Three or four men began to fire from the 
enemy’s side, and a chance shot took Daniel 
in the calf of the leg. That brought him to his 
senses. He looks across the snow at the Army, 
and sees the rifles that we had brought into the 
country. 

. Were) “done ‘for,:says, ohe.. “They \ are 
Englishmen, these people—and it’s my blasted 
nonsense that has brought you to this. Get 
back, Billy Fish, and take your men away; you’ve 
done what you could, and now cut forit. Carne- 
han,’ says he, ‘shake hands with me and go along 
with Billy. Maybe they won’t kill you. I'll 
go and meet ’em alone. It’s me that did it. 
Me, the King!’ 

““Go!’ says I. ‘Go to Hell, Dan. I’m with 
you here. Billy Fish, you clear out, and we two 
will meet those folk.’ 

‘“““T’m a Chief,’ says Billy Fish, quite quiet. 
‘I stay with you. My men can go.’ 

‘‘The Bashkai fellows didn’t wait for a second 
word, but ran off, and Dan and Me and Billy 
Fish walked across to where the drums were 
drumming and the horns were horning. It was 


51 


Masterpieces of Fictien 


cold—awful cold. I’ve got that cold in the 
back of my head now. There’s a lump of it 
there.”’ 

The punkah-coolies had gone to sleep. Two 
kerosene lamps were blazing in the office, and 
the perspiration poured down my face and 
splashed on the blotter as I-leaned forward. 
Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his 
mind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh 
grip of the piteously mangled hands, and 
said:—‘‘ What happened after that?” 

The momentary shift of my eyes had broken 
the clear current. 

‘““What was you pleased to say?” whined 
Carnehan. “They took them without any 
sound. Not a little whisper ali along the snow, 
not though the King knocked down the first 
man that set hand on him—not though old 
Peachey fired his last cartridge into the brown 
of ’em. Not a single solitary sound did those 
swines make. They just ‘closed up tight, and 
I tell you their furs stunk. There was a man 
called Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and 
they cut his throat, Sir, then and there, like 
a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow 
and says:—‘We’ve had a dashed fine run for 
our money. What’s coming next?’ But 
Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell you, Sir, 
in confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his 
head, Sir. No, he didn’t neither. The King 
lost his head, so he did, all along o’ one of those 
cunning rope-bridges. Kindly let me have the 


52 


The Man Who Would Be King 


paper-cutter, Sir. It tilted this way. They 
marched him a mile across that snow to a rope- 
bridge over a ravine with a river at the bottom. 
You may have seen such. They prodded him 
behind like an ox. ‘Damn your eyes!’ says 
the King. ‘D’you suppose I can’t die like a 
gentleman?’ He turns to Peachey—Peachey 
that was crying like a child. ‘I’ve brought you 
to this, Peachey,’ says he. ‘ Brought you out of 
your happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where 
you was late Commander-in-Chief of the Em- 
peror’s forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey.’ 
‘I do, says Peachey. ‘Fully and freely do I 
forgive you, Dan. ‘Shake hands, Peachey,’ 
says he. ‘I’m. going now.’” Out he - goes, 
looking neither right nor left, and when he 
was plumb in the middle of those dizzy dancing 
ropes, “Cut, yqu beggars,’ he shouts; and they 
cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round 
and round, twenty thousand miles, for he took 
half an hour to fall till he struck the water, and 
I could see his body caught on a rock with the 
gold crown close beside. 

“But do you know what they did to Peachey 
between two pine-trees? They crucified him, 
sir, as Peachey’s hands will show. They used 
wooden pegs for his hands and his feet; and he 
didn’t die. He hung there and screamed, and 
they took him down next day, and said it was a 
miracle that he wasn’t dead. They took him 
down—poor, old Peachey that hadn’t done them 
. any harm—that hadn’t done them any.. .” 


53 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, 
wiping his eyes with the back of his scarred 
hands and moaning like a child for some ten 
minutes. 

‘“They was cruel enough to feed him up in the 
temple, because they said he was more of a god 
than old Daniel that was a man. Then they 
turned him out on the snow, and told him to go 
home, and Peachey came home in about a year, 
begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel 
Dravot he walked before and said:—‘Come 
along, Peachey. It’s a big thing we’re doing.’ 
The mountains they danced at night, and the 
mountains they tried to fall on Peachey’s head, 
but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey 
came along bent double. He never let go of — 
Dan’s hand, and he never let go of Dan’s 
head. They gave it to him as a present in 
the temple, to remind him not to come again, 
and though the crown was pure gold, and 
Peachey was starving, never would Peachey 
sell the same. You knew Dravot, sir! You 
knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Look 
at him now!”’ : 

He fumbled in the mass of rags round his 
bent. waist; brought out a black horsehair 
bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook 
therefrom on to my table—the dried, withered 
head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun that 
had long been paling the lamps struck the red 
beard and blind, sunken eyes; struck, too, a 
heavy circlet of gold studded with raw turquoises, 


54 


The Man Whe Would Be King 


that Carnehan placed tenderly on the battered 
temples. 

“You behold now,’ said Carnehan, ‘‘the 
Emperor in his habit as he lived—the King 
of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. 
Poor old Daniel that was a monarch once!”’ 

I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements mani- 
fold, I recognised the head of the man of Marwar 
Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted 
to stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. 
*‘Let me take away the whisky, and give me a 
little money,” he gasped. ‘‘I was a King once. 
I'll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask to 
set in the Poorhouse till I get my health. No, 
thank you, I can’t wait till you get a carriage 
for me. I’ve urgent pave affairs—in the 
south—at Marwar.”’ 

He shambled out of the office and departed 
in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner’s 
house. That day at noon I had occasion to go 
down the blinding hot Mall, and I saw a crooked 
man crawling along the white dust of the road- 
side, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously 
after the fashion of street-singers at Home. 
There was not a soul in sight, and he was out 
of all possible earshot of the houses. And he 
sang through his nose, turning his head from 
Tight to left: 


‘““The Son of Man goes forth to war, 
A golden crown to gain; 
His blood-red banner streams afar— 
Who follows in his train?” ~~ 


55 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


I waited to hear no more, but put the poor 
wretch into my carriage and drove him off to 
the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to 
the Asylum. He repeated the hymn _ twice 
while he was with me whom he did not in 
the least recognise, and I left him singing to the 
missionary. 

Two days later I inquired after his welfare of 
the Superintendent of the Asylum. 

‘“He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. 
He died early yesterday morning,’’ said the 
Superintendent. ‘“‘Is it true that he was half 
an hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?”’ 

‘““Yes,”’ said I, ‘‘but do you happen to know 
if he had anything upon him by any chance 
when he died?”’ 

‘Not to my knowledge, 
tendent. 

And there the matter rests. 


9? 


said the Superin- 


? 


TAB AE Cr Ors TrRING 


BY 


HENRI RENE ALBERT Guy DE MAUPASSANT 


On all the roads leading to Goderville, the 
peasants and their wives were coming to town 
for market-day. The men shambled along at 
an easy-going gait, with bodies bent forward. 
Their long legs were deformed and twisted 
through hard work—from the weight of the 
plough, which at the same time throws the left 
shoulder too high, and ruins the figure; from 
mowing the grain, which effort causes the knees 
to spread too far apart; and from all the other 
slow and painful labours of country life. Their 
blue: blouses, starched to a sheenlike varnish 
and finished at collar and wristbands with lit- 
tle designs in white stitching, stood from their 
bony bodies like balloons ready for flight, with 
a head, two arms, and two feet protruding. 

Some of the men had a cow or calf in tow at 
the end of a rope, while their wives followed 
close behind the animal, switching it over the 
haunches with a leafy branch to hasten its pace. 

The women carried large baskets, out of which 
stuck the heads of chickens and ducks. They 
took much shorter and quicker steps than the 
men. Their lanky, spare figures were decorated 


57 


Masterpieces of Fiction | 


with mean little shawls pinned across their flat 
breasts. Each head bore a white linen cover, 
bound close to the hair and surmounted by a 
cap. 

Now and then, there went by a waggonette 
drawn by a pony on a jerky trot, which jostled 
the two men on the seat in a ludicrous manner, 
and made the woman at the end of the cart hold 
the sides firmly for ease from the rough jolting. 

In the Goderville market-place was a great 
crowd of men and animals. The horns of the 
cattle, the high, long-napped hats of the well- 
to-do peasants, and the head-dresses of women 
bobbed above the level of that crowd. Noisy 
voices, sharp and shrill, kept up a wild and 
ceaseless clamour, only outdone now and then 
by a great guffaw of laughter from the strong 
lungs of a jolly bumpkin, or a prolonged moo 
from a cow tied to the wall of some house. 

Everywhere it smelled of stables, of milk 
and manure, of hay and sweat. The air was 
redolent with that sourish, disagreeable odour 
savouring of man and beast which is peculiar 
to the labourers of the fields. | 

Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté, had ‘just 
arrived at Goderville, and was directing his steps 
to the square when he observed on the ground 
a little bit of string. Economical, like all true 
Normans, Master Hauchecorne considered that 
anything useful was worth picking up, and he 
bent down painfully, for he suffered from rheu- 
matism. He picked up the scrap of twine from — 


58 


The Piece of String 


the ground, and was preparing to wind it up 
carefully when he noticed Master Malandain, 
the harness-maker, looking at him from his door- 
way. Once they had a quarrel over a halter 
and had kept angry ever since, both of them 
holding spite. Master Hauchecorne was smit- 
ten with a certain sense of shame at being seen 
thus by his enemy searching in the dirt for a 
mere bit of string. He hastily hid his find under 
his blouse, then in the pocket of his breeches—- 
after which he pretended to be still looking at 
his feet for something which he had not yet 
found. At length, he started toward the 
market-place, his body almost bent double by 
his chronic pains. 

’ He lost himself at once in the slow, clamorous 
throng, which was agitated by perpetual bick- 
erings. The prospective buyers, after looking 
the cows over, would go away only to return 
perplexed; always fearing to be taken in; never 
reaching a decision, but narrowly watching the 
seller’s eyes, seeking in the end to detect the 
deceit of the man and the defect in his animal. 

The women, having put their big baskets at 
their feet, had pulled out the poultry, which 
lay on the ground With legs tied, with fright- 
ened eyes and scarlet combs. 

They listened to offers, maintaining their 
prices with a sharp air and impassive face, or 
else at a sweep accepting a reduced price, cry- 
ing after the customer who left reluctantly, 
‘‘Tt’s settled, Anthime; I’ll let you have them!” 


59 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Then, by degrees, the square emptied, and, 
as the Angelus struck noon, those living at a 
distance flocked to the inns. 

At Jourdain’s, the dining-room was filled with 
guests, as full as the great courtyard was with 
vehicles of every description—carts, gigs, waggon- 
ettes, tilburies, nondescript jaunting-cars, yel- 
low with mud, misshapen, patched up, lifting 
their shafts to heaven like two arms, or else in 
a sorry plight with nose in the mud and back 
in the air. 

Right opposite to where the diners were at 
table, the immense fireplace, all brightly aflame, 
imparted a genial warmth to the backs of the 
people ranged on the right. Three spits were 
turning, loaded with chickens, with pigeons, 
and with legs of mutton; and a delicious odour 
of roast meat and of gravy gushing over 
roast brown skin took wing from the hearth, 
kindled good humour, and made mouths 
water. 

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating 
there at Jourdain’s, the innkeeper who dealt in 
horses—a shrewd fellow, who had a goodish 
penny put by. 

The dishes were passed and emptied, as were 
likewise huge jugs of yellow cider. Every one 
recounted his dealings—his buying and selling. 
They gave news of the crops. The weather was 
good for greens, but somewhat wet for wheat. 

All at once, a drum rolled in the court before 
the house. Almost everybody, save the too 


60 


The Piece of String 


indifferent, immediately sprang to their feet 
and ran to the door, or to the windows, with 
mouth still full and napkin in hand. 

After the public crier had stopped his racket, 
he launched forth in a jerky voice, making his 
pauses at the wrong time: 

‘‘Be it known to the inhabitants of Goder- 
ville, and in general to all persons present at the 
market, that there was lost this morning on the 
Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, 
a black leather pocket-book containing five 
hundred francs and business papers. You 
are requested to return it to the mayor’s Office, 
at once, or to Master Fortuné Houlbréque, of 
Manneville. There will be twenty francs re- 
ward.”’ 

Then the man went away. They heard once 
more from afar the dull drum-beats and the 
fading voice of the crier. 

After that,, they began to discuss this event, 
counting the chances Master Houlbréque yet 
had of recovering or not recovering his pocket- 
book. 

And the meal went on. 

They were finishing their coffee when the 
corporal of police appeared on the threshold. 

He asked: 

‘*Master Hauchecorne, of Bréauté—is he here?” 

Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the 
table, answered: 

“Here I am.” 

And the corporal resumed: 


61 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


‘‘Master Hauchecorne, will you have the kind- 
“mess to come with me to the mayor’s office? 
The mayor would like to speak to you.”’ 

The peasant, surprised and disturbed, tossed © 
off his drink and arose, worse bent than in the 
morning, because the first steps after a rest were 
always especially difficult. He started off, 
repeating: 

‘‘Here I am; here I am.” 

And he followed the corporal. 

The mayor was awaiting him, seated in his 
official chair. He was the notary of the place, 
a large, grave man of pompous speech. 

‘‘Master Hauchecorne,’”’ he said, ‘“‘you were 
seen this morning, on the Beuzeville road, to 
pick up the pocket-book lost by Master Houl- : 
bréque, of Manneville.” 

The countryman, confused, stared at the 
mayor, already frightened by this suspicion 
attaching to him—why he could not anal 
stand. 

“J—I—I bs SS) up that pocten inate 

“Yes, you.’ 

‘On my word of honour, I didn’t even know 
nothing about it.’ 

‘“You were seen.” 

“They saw me—me? Who’s they what 
saw me?” 

‘Master Malandain, the harness-maker.” 

Then the old man remembered, understood, 
and reddened with anger. 

‘‘Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw 


62 


The Piece* of) String | 


me pick up this here string. Look, your wor- 
ship.”’ 

And, rummaging at the bottom of his pocket, 
he pulled out the little piece of string. 

But the incredulous mayor shook his head. 

“You will not make me believe, Master 
Hauchecorne, that Master Malandain, who is 
a man worthy of all respect, has taken this bit 
of cord for a pocket-book.”’ | 

The peasant, furious, raised his hand, and 
spit at his side to bear witness to his honour, 
repeating, 

‘““FP’r all that, it’s God’s truth, holy truth, 
your worship. There! My soul and my sal- 
vation knows it’s true!’’ 

The mayor resumed: 

“After having picked the article up, you 
even searched also a long while in the mud 
to make sure if any money had fallen out 
OLite 

The good man choked with rage and terror. 

‘““Tf them can say—if them can say—such lies 
as that to take away an honest man’s name! If 
them can say ey 

However he might protest, he was not, be- 
lieved. 

He was confronted by Master Malandain, who 
repeated and supported his statement. They 
railed at each other for an hour. Master Hauche- 
corne demanded that they search his pockets. 
Nothing was found upon him. 

Finally, the mayor, very much perplexed, let 


63 


_ Masterpieces of Fiction 


him go with the warning that he would inform 
the public prosecutor, and ask for orders. 

The news had spread abroad. When le 
came out of the mayor’s office, the old man 
was the centre of curiosity and ques- 
tioning, both serious and jeering, but into 
which not the least resentment entered. And 
he began recounting the long rigmarole of 
the string. They did not believe him. They 
grinned. 

He went alon’, stopped by every one, or ac- 
costing his acquaintances, going over and over 
his story and his protestations, pointing to his 
pockets turned inside out to prove he had 
nothing. ‘ 

They said to him: 

“‘Come now, you old rascal!” 

And he became angry, exasperated, feverish, 
disconsolate at being doubted, and forever tell- 
ing his story. | | 

Night fell. It became time to go home. He 
started out with three of his neighbours, to 
whom he pointed out the spot where he had 
picked up the bit of string; and, all along the 
road, he recited his adventure. 

That evening, he made a round of the village 
of Bréauté so as to tell everyone. He found 
only unbelievers. 

He was ill of it all through the night. 

The next tay about one in the afternoon, 
Marius Paumelle, a farm helper of Master Bre- 
ton, the market-gapdener at Ymauville, re- 


The Piece of String 


turned the pocket-book and its contents to 
Master Houlbréque of Manneville. 

This man maintained he had found it on the 
road, but, not knowing how to read, had carried 
it home, and turned it over to his master. 

The news spread to the suburbs. Master 
Hauchecorne was informed. Immediately, he 
set himself the task of going about relating his 
story, capping it with this climax. He was 
triumphant. 

‘““What hurt me the mostest,’”’ he said, ‘‘was 
not the thing itself, don’t you see, but the lies. 
Nothing hurts so as when’s lies told about you.” 

All day long he talked of his adventure. He 
told it on the roads to the people passing, at 
the tavern to people who were drinking, and 
then to the people coming out of church the 
next Sunday. He even stopped strangers to 
tell them the tale. He felt relieved by this 
time, yet something troubled him without his 
knowing just what it was. People had a mock- 
ing manner as they listened. They did not 
appear convinced. He almost felt their tattle 
behind his back. 

Tuesday of the next week, he went to the 
Goderville market, solely impelled by the need 
of recounting his affair. 

Malandain, standing in his doorway, began 
to laugh as he saw him pass. For what? 

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot who did 
.not permit him to finish, but, landing him a 
thump in the pit of the stomach, cried in his 


65 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


face, ‘‘Get out, you great rogue!” Then he 
turned on his heel. 

Master Hauchecorne, altogether abashed, grew 
more and more disturbed. Why had he been 
dubbed ‘‘a great rogue’’? 

When seated at table in Jourdain’s tavern, 
he again began to explain the particulars. 

A Montvilliers horse-dealer yelled at him: 

“Don’t tell me, you old fox! I know your 
piece of string yarn!” : 

Hauchecorne stammered, ‘‘B—b—but it’s 
found, the pocket-book!”’ 

To which the other retorted: 

“That'll do, daddy!. There’s one who finds 
and another who gives aipeet _ Neither is no one 
the wiser” Maumee se: "ial 

The peasant was choked off. At last, he 
understood. They accused him of having had 
the pocket-book returned by a crony—by an 
accomplice. 

He tried to protest. The whole table started 
to laugh. 

He could not finish his meal, and took his 
leave amidst their mocking and derision. 

He returned to his home, ashamed and in- 
dignant, stifled with rage, with confusion; all 
the more dejected because, with his Norman 
cunning, he was capable of having done what 
_they accused him of, and even of bragging of 
it as a good trick. His innocence vaguely 
appeared to him as impossible to prove; his, 
roguery was too well known. And he felt 


66 


The Piece of String 


struck to the heart by the injustice of the 
suspicion. 

Again he commenced to tell of his adventure; 
every day its recital lengthened, each time 
containing new proofs, more energetic pro- 
testations, and more solemn oaths which he 
prepared in his solitary hours. His mind was . 
altogether occupied by the story of the piece 
of string. He was believed all the less as his 
defence grew more complicated and his argu- 
ments more artful. 

“‘Now, those are the proofs of a liar,” they 
said behind his back. 

He felt this. It consumed his strength. He 
exhausted himself in useless efforts. 

He went into a visible decline. 

The jokers now made him detail the story of 
“‘The Piece of String’? to amuse them, just as 
you persuade a soldier who has come through 
a campaign to tell his version of a battle. At 
last, his mind began to give way. 

Near the end of December he took to his bed. 

He died the first week in January, and, in 
the delirium of the throes of death, he protested 
his innocence, repeating, “‘A little piece of string 
—little piece of string—see, here it is, your 
worship.” 


67 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


BY 


WASHINGTON IRVING 


On the summit of one of the heights of the 
Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of upper 
Germany that lies not far from the confluence of 
the Main and the Rhine, there stood many, many 
vears since the castle of the Baron von Landshort. 
It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried 
among beech trees and dark firs; above which, 
however, its old watch-tower may still be seen 
struggling, like the feudal possessor I have men- 
tioned, to carry a high head and look down upon 
the neighbouring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great 
family of Katzenellenbogen, and inherited the 
relics of the property and all the pride of his 
ancestors. Though the warlike disposition of 
his predecessors had much impaired the family 
possessions, yet the baron still endeavoured to 
keep up some show of former state. The times 
were peaceable, and the German nobles in general 
had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, 
perched like eagles’ nests among the mountains, 
and had built more convenient residences in the 
valleys; still, the baron remained proudly drawn 
up in his little fortress, cherishing with hereditary 


68 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


inveteracy all the old family feuds, so that he 
was on ill terms with some of his nearest neigh- 
bours, on account of disputes that had happened 
between their great-great-grandfathers, 

The baron had but one child, a daughter, but 
Nature, when she grants but one child, always 
compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it 
was with the daughter of the baron. All the 
nurses, gossips, and country cousins assured her 
father that she had not her equal for beauty in 
all Germany; and who should know better than 
they? She had, moreover, been brought up with 
great care under the superintendence of two 
maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their 
early life at one of the little German courts, and 
were skilled in all the branches of knowledge 
necessary to the education of a finelady. Under 
their instructions, she became a miracle of accom- 
plishments. By the time she was eighteen, she 
could embroider to admiration, and had worked 
whole histories of the saints in tapestry with 
such strength of expression in their countenances 
that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. 
She could read without great difficulty, and had 
spelled her way through several Church legends 
and almost all the chivalric wonders of the Hel- 
denbuch. She had even made considerable 
proficiency in writing; could sign her own name 
without missing a letter, and so legibly that her 
aunts could read it without spectacles. She 
excelled in making little elegant, good-for-nothing 
ladylike nicknacks of all kinds, was versed in the 


69 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


most abstruse dancing of. the day, played a 
number of airs on the harp and guitar, and 
knew all the tender ballads of the Minnelieder 
by heart. . . 

Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and 
coquettes in their younger days, were admirably 
calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict 
censors of the conduct of their niece; for there is 
no duenna so rigidly prudent and inexorably 
decorous as a superannuated coquette. She was 
rarely suffered out of their sight; never went 
beyond the domains of the castle unless well at- 
tended, or, rather, well watched; had continual 
lectures read to her about strict decorum and 
implicit obedience; and, as to the men—pah!— 
she was taught to hold them at such a distance 
andin such absolute distrust that, unless properly 
authorised, she would not have cast a glance upon 
the handsomest cavalier in the world—no, not if 
he were even dying at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonder- 
fully apparent. The young lady was a pattern 
of docility and correctness. While others were 
wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, 
and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by 
every hand, she was coyly blooming into fresh 
and lovely womanhood under the protection of 
those immaculate spinsters, like a rosebud blush- 
ing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts 
looked upon her with pride and exultation, and 
vaunted that, though all the other young ladies 
in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, 


7° 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of 
Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron von Lands- 
hort might be provided with children, his house- 
hold was by no means a small one; for Providence 
had enriched him with abundance of poor rela- 
tions. They, one and all, possessed the affec- 
tionate disposition common to humble relatives— 
were wonderfully attached to the baron, and took 
every possible occasion to come in swarms and 
mliven the castle. All family festivals were 
commemorated by these good people at the 
baron’s expense; and, when they were filled with 
zood cheer, they would declare’ that there was 
nothing on earth so delightful as these family 
meetings, these jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large 
soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the con- 
sciousness of being the greatest man in the little 
world about him. He loved to tell long stories 
about the stark old warriors whose portraits 
looked grimly down from the walls around, and 
he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his 
expense. He was much given to the marvellous, 
and a firm believer in all those supernatural tales 
with which every mountain and valley in Ger- 
many abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded 
even his own: they listened to every tale of won- 
der with open eyes and mouth, and never failed 
to be astonished, even though repeated for the 
hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron von 
Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute 


73 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


monarch of his little territory, and happy, above 
all things, in the persuasion that he was the 
wisest man of the age. 

At the time of which my siory treats, there 
was a great family gathering at the castle on an 
affair of the utmost importance: it was to receive 
the destined bridegroom of the baron’s daughter. 
A negotiation had been carried on between the 
father and an old nobleman of Bavaria to unite 
the dignity of their houses by the marriage of 
their children. The preliminaries had been con- 
ducted with proper punctilio. The young peo- 
ple were betrothed without seeing each other, 
and the time was appointed for the marriage 
ceremony. The young Count von Altenburg had 
been recalled from the army for the purpose, and 
was actually on his way to the baron’s to receive 
his bride. Missives had even been received from 
Wirtzburg, where he was accidently detained, 
mentioning the day and hour when he might 
be expected to arrive. | 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to 
give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had 
been decked out with uncommon care. The two 
aunts had superintended her toilet, and quar- 
relled the whole morning about every article of 
her dress. The young lady had taken advantage 
of their contest to follow the bent of her own 
taste; and, fortunately, it was a good one. She 
looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could 
desire, and the flutter of expectation heightened 
the lustre of her charms. 


72 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, 
the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and 
then lost in reverie, ali betrayed the soft tumult 
that was going on in her little heart. The aunts 
were continually hovering around her, for maiden 
aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of 
this nature. They were giving her a world of 
staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, 
andin what manner to receive the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. 
He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do; but he 
was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and 
could not remain passive when all the world was 
in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of 
the castle with an air of infinite anxiety; he con- 
tinually called the servants from their work to 
exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about 
every hall and chamber, as idly restless and 
importunate as a blue-bottle fly on a warm 
surnmer’s day. 

In the meantime, the fatted calf had been 
killed; the forests had rung with the clamour of 
the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with 
good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole 
oceans of Rheinwein and Iernewein; and even 
the great Heidelberg tun had been laid under 
contribution. Everything was ready to receive 
the distinguished guest with Saus und Braus in 
the true spirit of German hospitality; but the 
guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour 
rolled after hour. The sun, that had poured his 
downward rays upon the rich forest of the Oden- 


73 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


wald, now just gleamed along the summits of the 
mountains. The baron mounted the highest 
tower, and strained his eyes in hopes of catching 
a distant sight of the count and his attendants. 
Once he thought he beheld them; the sound of 
horns came floating from the°valley, prolonged 
by the mountain echoes. A number of horse- 
men were seen far below slowly advancing along 
the road; but, when they had nearly reached the 
foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in 
a different direction. The last ray of sunshine 
departed, the bats began to flit by in the twilight, 
the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view, 
and nothing appeared stirring in it but now and: 
then a peasant lagging homeward from his labour. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this 
state of perplexity a very interesting scene was 
transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count von Altenburg was tranquilly 
pursuing his route in that sober, jog-trot way in 
which a man travels toward matrimony when his 
friends have taken all the trouble and uncer- 
tainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is 
waiting as certainly as a dinner at the end of his 
journey. He had encountered at Wiirtzburg a 
youthful companion-in-arms with whom he had 
seen some service on the frontiers—Hermann von 
Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and 
worthiest hearts of German chivalry—who was 
now returning from the army. His father’s 
castle was not far distant from the old fortress of 
Landshort, although a hereditary feud rendered 


74 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


the families hostile and strangers to each 
other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, 
the young friends related all their past adventures 
and fortunes, and the count gave the whole his- 
tory of his intended nuptials with a young lady 
whom he had never seen, but of whose charms 
he had received the most enrapturing descrip- 
tions. 

As the route of the friends lay in the same 
-direction, they agreed to perform the rest of their 
journey together, and, that they might do it the 
more leisurely, set off from Wiurtzburg at an early 
hour, the count having given directions for his 
retinue to follow and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollec- 
tions of their military scenes and adventures; 
but the count was apt to be a little tedious now 
and then about the reputed charms of his bride 
and the felicity that awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the moun- 
tains of the Odenwald, and were traversing one 
of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It 
is well known that the forests of Germany have 
always been as much infested by robbers as its 
castles by spectres; and at this time the former 
were particularly numerous, from the hordes of 
disbanded soldiers wandering about the country. 
It will not appear extraordinary, therefore, that 
the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of these 
stragglers in the midst of the forest. They de- 
fended themselves with bravery, but were nearly 


yi 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


overpowered when the count’s retinue arrived 
to. their assistance. At sight of them, the rob- 
bers fled, but not until the count had received a 
mortal wound. He was slowly and carefully 
conveyed back to the city of Wurtzburg, and a 
friar summoned from aneighbouring convent who 
was famous for his skill in administering to 
both soul and body; but half of his skill was 
superfluous: the moments of the unfortunate 
count were numbered. 

With his dying breath, he entreated his friend 
to repair instantly to the castle of Landshort and 
explain the fatal cause of his not keeping: his 
appointment with his bride. Though not the 
most ardent of lovers, he was one of the most 
punctilious of men, and appeared earnestly 
solicitous that his mission should be speedily 
and courteously executed. ‘‘Unless this is done,” 
said he, ‘‘I shall not sleep quietly in my grave.” 
He repeated these last words with peculiar 
solemnity. A request at a moment so impres- 
sive admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust en- 
deavoured to soothe him to calmness, promised 
faithfully to execute his wish, and gave him his 
hand in solemn pledge. The dying man pressed 
it in acknowledgment, but soon lapsed into 
delirium—raved about his bride, his engage- 
ments, his plighted word—ordered his horse, 
that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, 
and expired in the fancied act of vaulting into 
the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier’s 


76 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


tear on the untimely fate of his comrade, and 
then pondered on the awkward mission he had 
undertaken. His heart was heavy, and his head 
perplexed; for he was to present himself an un- 
bidden guest among hostile people, and to damp 
their festivity with tidings fatal to their hopes. 
Still, there were certain whisperings of curiosity 
in his bosom to see this far-famed beauty of 
Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up from 
the world; for he was a passionate admirer of the 
sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and 
enterprise in his character that made him fond 
of all singular adventure. 

Previous to his departure, he made all due 
arrangements with the holy fraternity of the con- 
vent for the funeral solemnities of his friend, who 
was to be buried in the cathedral of Wuirtzburg 
near some of his illustrious relatives, and the 
mourning retinue of the count took charge of 
his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the 
ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were 
impatient for their guest, and still more for their 
dinner, and to the worthy little baron, whom we 
left airing himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but stillno guest arrived. The 
baron descended from the tower in despair. 
The banquet, which had been delayed from hour 
to hour, could no longer be postponed. The meats 
were already overdone, the cook in an agony, 
and the whole household had the look of a gar- 
rison that had been reduced by famine. The 


77 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


baron was obliged reluctantly to give orders for 
the feast without the presence of the guest. All 
were seated at table, and just on the point of com- 
mencing, when the sound of a horn from without 
the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. 
Another long blast filled the old courts of the 
castle with its echoes, and was answered by the 
warder from the walls. The baron hastened to 
receive his future son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the 
stranger was before the gate. He was a tall, 
gallant cavalier, mounted on a black steed. His 
countenance was pale, but he had a beaming, 
romantic eye and an air of stately melancholy. 
The baron was a little mortified that he should 
have come in this simple, solitary style. His 
dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt dis- 
posed to consider it a want of proper respect for. 
the important occasion and the important family 
with which he was to be connected. He pacified 
himself, however, with the conclusion that it 
must have been youthful impatience which had 
induced him thus to spur on sooner than his 
attendants. | 

“I am sorry, 
upon you thus unseasonably 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world 
of compliments and greetings, for, to tell the. 
truth, he prided himself upon his courtesy and 
eloquence. The stranger attempted once or 
twice to stem the torrent of words, but in vain; 
so he bowed his head, and suffered it to flow on 


78 


said the stranger, ‘‘to break in - 


”? 


%? 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


By the time the baron had come to a pause, they 
had reached the inner court of the castle, and the 
stranger was again about to speak, when he was 
once more interrupted by the appearance of the 
female part of the family leading forth the 
shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her 
for a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if 
his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and 
rested upon that lovely form. One of the maiden 
aunts whispered something in her ear; she made 
an effort to speak; her moist blue eye was timidly 
raised, gave a shy glance of inquiry on the 
stranger, and was cast again to the ground. The 
words died away, but there was a sweet smile 
playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the 
cheek that showed her glance had not been un- 
satisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of the 
fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love 
and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant 
a cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived 
left no time for parley. The baron was per- 
emptory, and deferred all particular conversa- 
tion until the morning, and led the way to the 
untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. 
Around the walls hung the hard-favoured por- 
traits of the heroes of the house of Katzenellen- 
bogen, and the trophies which they had gained 
in the field and in the chase. Hacked corslets, 
splintered jousting-spears, and tattered banners 
were mingled with the spoils of sylvan warfare; 


79 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


the jaws of the wolf and the tusks of the boar 
grinned horribly among cross-bows and battle- 
axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched imme- 
diately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the com- 
pany or the entertainment: He scarcely tasted 
the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiration 
of his bride. He conversed in a low tone that 
could not be overheard, for the language of love 
is never loud; but where is the female ear so dull 
that it cannot catch the softest whisper of the 
lover? There was a mingled tenderness and. 
gravity in his manner that appeared to have a 
powerful effect upon the young lady. Her 
colour came and went as she listened with deep 
attention. Now and then she made some blush- 
ing reply, and, when his eye was turned away, 
she would steal a sidelong glance at his romantic 
countenance, and heave a gentle sigh of tender 
happiness. It was evident that the young couple 
were completely enamoured. The aunts, who 
were deeply versed in the mysteries of the heart, 
declared that they had fallen in love with each 
other at first sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, 
for the guests were all blessed with those keen 
appetites that attend upon light purses and 
mountain air. The baron told his best and 
longest stories, and never had he told them so 
well or with such great effect. If there was any- 
thing marvellous, his auditors were lost in aston- 
ishment; and if anything facetious, they were 


80 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The 
baron, it is true, like most great men, was too 
dignified to utter any joke but a dull one; it was 
always enforced, however, by a bumper of excel- 
lent Hochheimer, and even a dull joke at one’s 
own table, served up with jolly old wine, is irre- 
sistible. Many good things were said by poorer 
and keener wits that would not bear repeating, 
except on similar occasions; many sly speeches 
whispered in ladies’ ears that almost convulsed 
them with suppressed laughter; and a song or 
two roared out by a poor but merry and broad- 
faced cousin of the baron that absolutely made 
the maiden aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest 
maintained a most singular and unseasonable 
gravity. His countenance assumed a deeper 
cast of dejection as the evening advanced, and, 
strange as it may appear, even the baron’s jokes 
seemed only to render him the more melancholy. 
At times he was lost in thought, and at times 
there was a perturbed and restless wandering of 
the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His 
conversations with the bride became more and 
more earnest and mysterious. Lowering clouds 
began to steal over the fair serenity of her brow, 
and tremors to run through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the com- 
pany. Their gayety was chilled by the unac- 
countable gloom of the bridegroom; their spirits 
were infected; whispers and glances were inter- 
changed, accompanied by shrugs and dubious 


81 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


shakes of the head. The song and the laugh 
grew less and less frequent; there were dreary 
pauses in the conversation, which were at length 
succeeded by wild tales and supernatural legends. 
One dismal story produced another still more 
dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of 
the ladies into hysterics with the history of the 
goblin horseman that carried away the fair 
Leonora—a dreadful story which has since been 
put into excellent verse, and is read and believed 
by all the world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with pro- 
found attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed 
on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, 
began gradually to rise from his seat, growing 
taller and taller, until, in the baron’s entranced 
eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant. 
The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a 
deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the com- 
pany. They were all amazement. The baron 
was perfectly thunderstruck. 

‘‘What! going to leave the castle at midnight? 
Why, everything was prepared for his reception; 
@ chamber was ready for him if he wished to 
retire.” 

The stranger shook his head mournfully and 
mysteriously: ‘‘I must lay my head in a different 
chamber to-night.” 

There was something in this reply and ie tone 
in which it was uttered that made the baron’s 
heart misgive him; but he rallied his forces, and 
repeated his hospitable entreaties. 


82 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


The stranger shook his head silently, but 
positively, at every offer, and, waving his fare- 
well to the company, stalked slowly out of the 
hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petri- 
fied; the bride hung her head, and a tear stole to 
Herseye: 

The baron followed the stranger to the great 
court of the castle, where the black charger stood 
pawing the earth and snorting with impatience. 
When they had reached the portal, whose deep 
archway was dimly lighted by a cresset, the 
stranger paused, and addressed the baron in a 
hollow tone of voice, which the vaulted roof 
rendered still more sepulchral. 

‘‘Now that we are alone,” said he, ‘“‘I will 
impart to you the reason of my going. I have 
a solemn, an indispensable engagement % 

“Why,” said the baron, ‘‘cannot you send 
some one in your place?”’ 

“Tt admits of no substitute—I must attend it 
in person; I must away to Wutrtzburg cathe- 
dral " 

“Ay,” said the baron, plucking up spirit, “‘but 
not until to-morrow—to-morrow you shall take 
your bride there.” 

‘“‘No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold 
solemnity, ‘‘my engagement is with no bride— 
the worms! the worms expect me! I ama dead 
man—I have been slain by robbers—my body 
lies at Wurtzburg—at midnight I am to be buried 
—the grave is waiting for me—I must keep my 
appointment!”’ 


83 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


He sprang on his black charger, dashed over 
the drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse’s 
hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night-blast. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost 
consternation, and related what had passed. 
Two ladies fainted outright ; others sickened at 
the idea of having banqueted with a spectre. It 
was the opinion of some that this might be the 
Wild Huntsman, famous in German legend. 
Some talked of mountain-sprites, of wood- 
demons, and of other supernatural beings with 
which the good people of Germany have been so 
grievously harassed since time immemorial. 
One of the poor relations ventured to suggest 
that it might be some sportive evasion of the 
young cavalier, and that the very gloominess of 
the caprice seemed to accord with so melancholy 
a personage. This, however, drew on him the 
indignation of the whole company, and especially 
of the baron, who looked upon him as little bet- 
ter than an infidel; so that he was fain to abjure 
his heresy as speedily as possible, and come into 
the faith of the true believers. . 

But, whatever may have been the doubts enter- 
tained, they were completely put to an end by 
the arrival next day of regular missives con- 
firming the intelligence of the young count’s 
murder and his interment in Witirtzburg cathe- 
dral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. 
The baron shut himself up in his chamber. The 
guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could 


84 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


not think of abandoning him in his distress. 
They wandered about the courts or collected in 
groups in the hall, shaking their heads and 
shrugging their shoulders at the troubles of so 
good a man, and sat longer than ever at the 
table, and ate and drank more stoutly than ever, 
by way of keeping up their spirits. But the 
situation of the widowed bride was the most 
pitiable. To have lost a husband before she 
had even embraced him—and such a husband! 
If the very spectre could be so gracious and noble, 
what must have been the living man? She filled 
the house with lamentations. . 

On the night of the second day of her widow- 
hood, she had retired to her chamber, accom- 
panied by one of her aunts, who insisted on 
sleeping with her. The aunt, who was one of 
the best tellers of ghost-stories in all Germany, 
had just been recounting one of her longest, and 
had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. The 
chamber was remote, and overlooked a small 
garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the 
beams of the rising moon as they trembled on the 
leaves of an aspen tree before the lattice. The 
castle clock had just tolled midnight, when a 
soft strain of music stole up from the garden. 
She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly 
to the window. A tall figure stood among the 
shadows of' the trees. As it raised its head, a 
beam of .moonlight fell upon the countenance. 
Heaven and earth! she beheld the Spectre Bride- 
groom! A loud shriek at that moment burst 


85 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been 
awakened by the music, and had followed her 
silently to the window, fell into her arms. When 
she looked again, the spectre had disappeared. 
Of the two females, the aunt now required the 
most soothing, for she was perfectly beside her- 
self with terror. As to the young lady, there was 
something even in the spectre of her lover that 
seemed endearing. There was still the sem- 
blance of manly beauty, and, though the shadow 
of a man is but little calculated to satisfy the 
affections of a lovesick girl, yet, where the sub- 
stance is not to be had, even that is consoling. 
The aunt declared she would never sleep in that 
chamber again; the niece, for once, was refrac- 
tory, and declared as strongly that she would 
sleep in no other in the castle; the consequence 
was that she had to sleep in it alone; but she 
drew a promise from her aunt not to relate the 
story of the spectre, lest she should be denied the 
only melancholy pleasure left her on earth—that 
of inhabiting the chamber over which the guard- 
ian shade of her lover kept its nightly vigils. 
How long the good old lady would have ob- 
served this promise is uncertain, for she dearly 
loved to talk of the marvellous, and there is a 
triumph in being the first to tell a frightful story; 
it is, however, still quoted in the neighbourhood 
as a memorable instance of female secrecy that 
she kept it to herself for a whole week, when she 
was suddenly absolved from all further restraint 
by intelligence brought to the breakfast-table one 


86 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


morning that the young lady was not to be found. 
Her room was empty—the bed had not been slept 
in—the window was open, and the bird had flown! 

The astonishment and concern with which the 
intelligence was received can be imagined only by 
those who have witnessed the agitation which the 
mishaps of a great man cause among his friends. 
Even the poor relations paused for a moment 
from the indefatigable labours of the trencher, 
wher the aunt, who had at first been struck 
speechless, wrung her hands and shrieked out, 
‘The goblin! the goblin! she’s carried away by the 
goblin!”’ 

In a few words, she related the fearful scene of 
the garden, and concluded that the spectre must 
have carried off his bride. Two of the domestics 
corroborated the opinion, for they had heard the 
clattering of a horse’s hoofs down the mountain 
about midnight, and had no doubt that it was the 
spectre on his black charger bearing her away to. 
the tomb. All present were struck with the dire- 
ful probability, for: events of the kind are ex- 
tremely common in Germany, as many well- 
authenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the 
poor baron! What a heartrending dilemma for 
a fond father and a member of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen! His only daughter had either 
been rapt away to the grave, or he was to have 
some wood-demon for a son-in-law, and per- 
chance a troop of goblin grandchildren. As 
usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the 


87 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


castle in an uproar. The men were ordered to 
take horse, and scour every road and path and 
glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself had 
just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, 
and was about to mount his steed to sally forth 
on the doubtful quest, when he was brought to a 
pause by a new apparition. A lady was seen 
approaching the castle mounted on a palfrey, at- 
tended by a cavalier on horseback. She galloped 
up to the gate, sprang from her horse, and, falling 
at the baron’s feet, embraced his knees. It was 
his lost daughter, and her companion—the Spec- 
tre Bridegroom! The baron was astounded. 
He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, 
and almost doubted the evidence of his senses. 
The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in his 
appearance since his visit to the world of spirits. 
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure 
of manly symmetry. He was no longer pale 
and melancholy. His fine countenance was 
flushed with the glow of fou and joy rioted in 
his large dark eye. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The 
cavalier (for, in truth, as you must have known 
all the while, he was no goblin) announced him- 
self as Sir Hermann von Starkenfaust. He 
related his adventure with the young count. 
He told how he had hastened to the castle to 
deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the elo- 
quence of the baron had interrupted him in every 
attempt to tell his tale; how the sight of the 
bride had completely captivated him; and that, 


88 


The Spectre Bridegroom 


to pass a few hours near her, he had tacitly suf- 
fered the mistake to continue. How he had 
been sorely perplexed in what way to make a 
decent retreat, until the baron’s goblin stories had 
suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing the 
feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his 
visits by stealth—had haunted the garden be- 
neath the young lady’s window—had wooed— 
had won—had borne away in triumph—and, in 
a word, had wedded the fair. 

Under any other circumstances, the baron 
would have been irfflexible, for he was tenacious 
of paternal authority and devoutly obstinate in 
all family feuds; but he loved his daughter; he 
had lamented her as lost; he rejoiced to find her 
still alive; and, though her husband’ was of a 
hostile house, yet, thank Heaven! he was not a 
goblin. There was something, it must be acknowl- 
edged, that did not exactly accord with his 
notions of strict veracity in the joke the knight 
had passed upon him of his being a dead man; but 
several old friends present, who had served in the 
wars, assured him that every stratagem was 
excusable in love, and that the cavalier was 
entitled to especial privilege, having lately served 
as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. 
The baron pardoned the young couple on the 
spot. The revels at the castle were resumed. 
The poor relations overwhelmed this new mem- 
ber of the family with loving kindness; he was so 
gallant, so generous—and so rich. The aunts. 


89 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


it is true, were somewhat scandalised that their 
system of strict seclusion and passive obedience 
should be so badly exemplified, but attributed it 
all to their negligence in not having the windows 
grated. One of them was particularly mortified 
at having her marvellous story marred, and that 
the only spectre she had ever seen should turn 
out a counterfeit; but the niece seemed perfectly 
happy at having found him substantial flesh 
and blood. And so the story ends. 


S 


go 


A FIGHT FOR THE TSARINA 


BY 


Mavrus JOKAI 


In the reign of the Tsar Peter III., there 
existed at St. Petersburg a secret society which 
was known as ‘‘The Nameless.’ Its members 
were accustomed to meet at the house of a 
Russian nobleman, Yelagin by name, who 
alone knew the identity of his visitors, most of 
whom were strangers to each other. Distin- 
guished personages of every walk of life, including 
priests, court ladies, officers of the Guard, 
Cossacks, young business men, musicians, street- 
singers, actors and actresses, scientists, clergy- 
men, and statesmen, used to gather there. 
The only qualifications needed for entrance into 
the Society, the members of which were chosen 
by Yelagin, were beauty and wit. The only 
forms of address used were ‘‘thee’”’ and ‘‘thou,”’ 
and by Christian name, such as Anne, Alex- 
andra, Katherine, Olga, Peter, Alexis, and Ivan. 
Their purpose in thus assembling was solely to 
amuse themselves at their ease. All met here 
on equal terms; even those who, under the 
conventions of caste and rank, occupied the 
relative positions of master and slave, broke the 
chains of prejudice for the moment. It is not 


9g! 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


unlikely that he with whom the grenadier 
private is now playing chess is a general who 
might order him a hundred lashes to-morrow 
should he take a false step on parade! Yet now 
he strives with him to make a queen out of a 
pawn. It is possible, too, that) thewprerty 
woman who is singing sprightly French songs to 
the accompaniment of an instrument which she 
plays with her left hand is a lady in the court 
of the Tsarina, who probably is much more 
accustomed to throwing coins from her carriage 
to street players! Perhaps she is a princess, 
possibly the wife of the Lord Chamberlain, or 
perhaps of even higher rank than this? 

Russian society of every class, high and low, 
met in Yelagin’s castle, and there enjoyed 
fraternity in the broadest sense of the word. 
Curious phenomenon, that this should happen in 
Russia of all countries, where so much is thought 
of aristocracy, officiatdom, and pomp; where an 
inferior must dismount from his horse when 
meeting a superior, where non-commissioned 
officers take off their coats in token of salute 
when they meet those of higher rank, and where 
generals kiss priests’ hands, and the noblest in 
the land fall on their faces before the Tsar! 
Here they laugh, and dance, and are familiar 
together, ridicule the Government, and gossip 
about the high dignitaries of the church—all 
without fear or the stiffness of society. Was 
merely love of amusement and novelty at the 
bottom of this? The existence of the secret 


Qg2 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


society was frequently made known to the 
police, who certainly could not be reproached 
for not having attempted to quash it; but, when 
proceedings were begun, they usually came to 
nothing. The investigating official either never 
discovered anything suspicious, or, if he did, the 
case was postponed. Those who were arrested 
in connection with the matter were set at liberty, 
all papers concerning the case were either 
destroyed or disappeared, and countless reams 
of writing were converted into plain white paper. 
If some influential official saw fit to conduct the 
prosecution of ‘‘The Nameless” energetically, 
he usually soon found himself journeying to 
some foreign country on an important mission, 
from which he was unlikely to return for a con- 
siderable period. ‘‘The Nameless Society’’ was 
evidently under the protection of powerful 
influences. 

At the close of one of these entertainments, a 
young Cossack officer remained behind the other 
guests, and, when quite alone with his host, he 
said to him, 

““Yelagin, did you see the pretty woman with 
whom I danced the mazurka to-night ?”’ 

“Yes, I saw her. Have you fallen in love 
with her, as the others have done?”’ 

‘‘T must make that woman my wife.” 

Yelagin clapped the Cossack on the shoulders 
and looked into his eyes. 

“That you will not do! That woman will 
never be your wife, friend Yemelyan.”’ 


93 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Yelagin clapped the Cossack on the shoulders.’ 
‘‘T will marry her—I have determined to do 
so.” 

“You will not marry her, for she will not 
accept you.” 

‘‘If she does not come with me; I shall carry 
her off by force.” 

“You cannot marry her, because she has a 
husband.” 

‘‘Then I shall carry off her husband with her.’’ 

“You cannot carry her off, for she lives in a 
palace, guarded by many soldiers, and, when 
she drives, her carriage is accompanied by 
many outriders.”’ 

‘I shall take her away with her palace, her 
soldiers, and her carriage. By St. Gregory, I 
swear it!”’ 

Yelagin laughed scornfully. 

‘“‘My good Yemelyan, go home and sleep it 
off. That pretty woman is the Tsarina!”’ 

The Cossack turned pale, and his breath came 
in gasps; but, the next moment, his eyes flashed, 
and he said to Yelagin: 

‘Nevertheless, what I have said, I have 
said.” 

Yelagin ceremoniously bowed out his guest. 
But, unlikely as it may appear, Yemelyan was 
not intoxicated, unless, indeed, it were with 
the wine of a woman’s eyes. 

Several years passed. The society of ‘‘The 
Nameless’’ was broken up and scattered. The 
Tsar had been assassinated, and Katherine, his 


94 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


wife, had ascended the throne. Some people 
alleged that she had brought about his death; 
others defended her. It was stated that she 
had known what was going to happen, but had 
been unable to prevent it; that she had pretended, 
after a struggle with her conscience, to know 
nothing of the poison administered to her 
husband. Moreover, it was even asserted that 
she had done weil, and that the fate which had 
overtaken the Tsar was a just one, as he was a 
wicked man; and, finally, the whole matter was 
denied, and it was said that Tsar Peter had not 
been assassinated at all, but had died a natural 
death from acute inflammation of the stomach. 
According to the immortal Voltaire, he was too 
much addicted to brandy. However, the 
Tsar was buried; but, for the Tsarina Katherine, 
he belonged to that army of the dead who do 
not sleep in peace, who rise from their graves, and, 
stretching out clammy hands from their shrouds, 
lay gruesome touch on those who have forgotten 
them. And, when they turn over in their 
graves, the earth seems to tremble under the 
feet of those that walk over them! 

Among the many diverse rumours that 
circulated, one difficult to believe, but which was 
generally credited among the populace, and 
which caused much loss of life before it faded 
from memory, was to the effect that Tsar Peter 
had neither died a natural death nor had been 
assassinated, but that he still lived. It was said 
that a common soldier, resembling the Tsar even 


95 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


to his pock-marked face, had been shown to the 
public on the Tsar’s death-bed in St. Petersburg, 
and that the Tsar himself had escaped from 
prison in the soldier’s clothes, and would return 
to recapture his throne, subdue his wife, and 
destroy his enemies! Five pretenders rose, 
one after the other, in all parts of the Russian 
Empire, the rallying-cry of each being ‘‘Revenge 
on the faithless!” The usurpers conquered 
sometimes a northern, sometimes a southern 
province, assembled an army, captured toWns, 
and generally conducted themselves in such a 
manner that it was necessary to despatch forces 
to defeat them. No sooner was one of these 
pretenders driven into the northern deserts, or 
captured and hanged, than another Tsar Peter 
would rise up and instigate another rebellion, 
interrupting the enjoyment of the Court circle 
until it seemed as if these things would never 
end. The murdered husband remained un- 
buried, for, at any moment, he might rise up in 
some part of the country, exclaiming, “‘I am 
still alive!’’ He seemed to have a hundred 
lives, for, no matter how many times he was 
killed, he would again appear with the statement 
that he still lived. After five of these pretenders 
of Peter had followed the real Tsar to the grave, 
a sixth made his appearance. The name of 
this usurper, who was the most daring and the 
most feared of all, will be inscribed for all time 
in the history of the Russian people as a horrible 
example to all who swerve from the paths of 


96 


-A Fight for the Tsarina 


rectitude. His name was Yemelyan Pugascheff. 
Born and bred a Cossack in the province of the 
Don, he took part in the Prussian campaign, 
first as a soldier of Prussia, later as a follower 
of the Tsar. At the siege of Bender, he had 
become a Cossack hetman. On account of his 
superb physical strength, and his natural 
shrewdness and adaptability, he soon became 
a leader among men; but his advancement was 
cut short by the peace which was proclaimed. 
He was sent, with many other discharged 
soldiers, back to the Don province, where there 
was nothing else to do but to attend to farming 
matters. Pugascheff, however, had no idea of 
devoting the rest of his life to the making of 
cheese, which had been his original occupation. 
He hated the Tsarina—and adored her. He 
hated the proud woman who dared to place her 
yoke upon the Russian people, and he adored 
the woman sair enough to ensnare the heart of 
every Russian! He became obsessed with the 
mad thought that he must fold that woman in 
his arms, even if he had to wrest her from her 
throne to do so. To this end, he prepared his 
plans. He journeyed to the Volga, to the land 
of the Roskolniks—the descendants of the 
persecuted fanatics who, in past days, had been 
executed by hanging, on trees or on scaffolds, 
for the sole reason that they crossed themselves 
downwards, and not upwards, as one does in 
Moscow. The Roskolniks were always ready 
for an uprising, and required only a leader. 


97 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Pugascheff tried to work his purpose with these, 
but his plans miscarried, and he fell into the 
hands of the police, and was thrown into prison 
at Kazan. 

And so he might dream on! He dreamed one 
night that he freed his limbs from their chains, 
cut his way through the prison wall, swam 
across the surrounding trench, which was 
filled with sharp spikes, and, finally, reached 
the desert plains of the Ural Sorodok, without 
food and with his clothing in rags! The Yakics 
Cossacks, the most dreaded people in Russia, 
inhabit the plain of Uralsk, one of those border — 
countries of which only the outline is seen on 
the map. This tribe has no intercourse with 
the neighbouring peoples, and changes its 
location from year to year. One winter, a 
Cossack band will make a raid in the land of the 
Kirghese, and burn down their huts; next year, 
the Kirghese will retaliate on the Cossacks! 
Fighting is good sport in the winter. In the 
summer, however, one sleeps in the open, and 
there are no houses to destroy! These Cossacks 
. are Roskolniks by faith. Not long since, they 
had amused themselves by putting to death 
the Russian Commissioner-General Traubenberg, 
together with his followers, who had come to 
make regulations in regard to the fishing rights 
in the River Yaik; and, by this act, they con- 
sidered as demonstrated the fact that the 
Government had nothing to say about their 
fish. At the time that Pugascheff arrived there, 


98 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


they had just finished dividing the weapons 
of the Russian soldiers among themselves, and 
were planning as to what they should next do. 
One beautiful autumn night, the escaped prisoner, 
having lost himself in the valley of Yeremina 
Kuriza, situated in the most lonely part of the 
Ural Mountains, reached the tumbledown 
village of Yaicskoi, and knocked at the door of 
the first house he saw, saying that he was a 
refugee, and requesting admittance. He was 
received with open arms, and was given supper. 
The owner of the house was himself poor, the 
Kirghese having stolen his sheep. One of 
his sons, a Roskolnik priest, had been forced to 
work in the lead mines; another had been 
taken to serve as a soldier, and had subsequently 
died; the third had been involved in a rebellion 
and been hanged. The old man remained at 
home alone. Pugascheff listened to the lament 
of his host, and said, 

‘*These things can be alleviated.”’ 

‘“Who can raise my dead sons to life again?”’ 
said the old man bitterly. 

‘‘He who himself rose in order that he might 
slay.” 

‘““Of whom do you speak?” 

+ Of thet Psar:"’ 

‘‘What! the murdered Tsar!’’ exclaimed the 
old soldier, with astonishment. 

‘“‘He has already been killed six times, yet 
still he lives. Such people as I met on my 
journey here all asked me, ‘Is it true that the 


99 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Tsar is alive, and that he has escaped his captors?” 
I answered them that it was true, that he was 
on his way here, and that, before long, he would 
show himself to them.”’ 

““That is all very well, but how can the Tsar 
get here?” 

‘He is already here.” 

‘“Where is he?” 

aim hed, 

‘“Well,. well!”’ replied Kocsenikoff. ‘‘Now I 
understand what you wish me to do. I shall 
be ready whenever you say the word. It is all 
the same to me, so that I have a leader. But 
who is to believe that you are the Tsar? Hun- 
dreds of people have seen him face to face. 
The face of the Tsar was horribly pockmarked 
as everyone knows, while yours is smooth.” 

““We can soon arrange that. Has there not — 
recently been a death from the black-pox in 
this neighbourhood ?”’ | 

‘“We have such a death every day. My last 
labourer died two days ago.” 

‘“Very well; I shall sleep in his bed, and I 
shall leave it like Tsar Peter.” 

He kept his word. He lay on the infected 
couch. Two days later, he was down with the 
black-pox, and, six weeks afterward, he rose 
with the pale and afflicted countenance of the 
unhappy Tsar. | 

Kocsenikoff felt that a man who could so 
carelessly set his life at stake was one to be 
counted on. In this region, nine out of every 


I0Oo 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


ten men have some hidden plan of personal 
revenge, for the consummation of which they 
await only a suitable opportunity. Among the 
first ten people to whom Kocsenikoff confided 
the scheme, he found nine who were willing to 
take part in the daring undertaking, even to the 
extent of their heads; but the tenth was a 
traitor. He betrayed the plot to Colonel Simon- 
off, the commander of the Yaicskoi, who at once 
put Kocsenikoff under arrest. Pugascheff, how- 
ever, succeeded in escaping on the very horse 
which had been sent with the Cossack who was 
assigned to arrest him—even carrying off the 
Cossack himself! 

For the enlightenment of future generations, 
the name of the Cossack whom Pugascheff 
carried off is chronicled in the history of the 
nation. Czika was the name of this faint- 
hearted individual. The event took place on 
September 15th. When, two days later, Puga- 
scheff approached the town of Yaicskoi, he was 
arrayed in a scarlet, fur-trimmed tunic, and 
had three hundred bold troopers at his back. 
As he neared the town, he ordered that trumpets 
be blown, and demanded that Colonel Simonoff 
surrender, and kiss the hand of his lord and 
master, Tsar Peter III. Simonoff opposed him 
with 5,800 troops, of whom 800 were regular 
Russian soldiers, and they soon succeeded in 
surrounding Pugascheff. At a moment when 
all seemed lost, he extracted a letter from his 
bosom, and read out to the troops that con- 


Ior 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


fronted him a proclamation in which he besought 
the Cossacks faithful to Peter III. to assist 
him to regain his crown and to oust pretenders, 
threatening with death those who might dispute 
his authority. This spread consternation among 
the Cossacks, and the cry was echoed from lip 
to lip; “The! Tsar ‘lives! >This as @ney tease 
The officers tried to preserve order, but to no 
purpose. They began to fight among themselves, 
and the struggle went on until far into the night. 
The end of the matter was that, instead of 
Simonoff’s capturing Pugascheff, the latter made 
prisoners of eleven of his officers; and, when he 
retired from the scene, his three hundred men 
had been increased to eight hundred. Only with 
great difficulty was Colonel Simonoff able tec 
retain command over the remainder of his men. 
Pugascheff encamped on the outskirts of the 
town, in the grounds of a Russian nobleman, 
and on the wide-spreading trees he hung the 
eleven captured officers. His adversary feared 
to attack him, but entrenched himself under the 
shelter of cannon, awaiting attack in his turn. 
But our bold ‘friend was not quite such a fool as 
to give him battle. He must first gain more 
adherents, more guns, and win more important 
battles. He turned his attention to the small 
towns that had been built by the Government 
along the Yaik. The Roskolniks greeted the 
pseudo-Tsar with wild enthusiasm. They be- 
lieved that he had risen from his grave to 
punish the arrogance of the Moscow clergy, and 


IO2 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


that he intended to substitute their own perse- 
cuted faith for the Court religion. By the 
third day, 3,000 men had flocked to his standards. 
The fortress of Ilecska was his first stopping- 
place. It is distant about seventy versts from 
Yaicskoi. The gates were opened for him, and 
he was received with enthusiasm, the town-guard 
joining his troops. The arms and ammunition 
he secured at Ilecska enabled him to extend his 
campaign. The stronghold of Kazizna, to 
which he next turned his attention, did not, 
however, give up so easily, and Pugascheff was 
forced to lay siege to it. In the heat of. battle, 
Pugascheff’s Cossacks called out to those within 
the town, whereupon the latter immediately 
turned their guns upon their own officers. All 
who opposed them were summarily executed, 
and the Colonel himself was taken prisoner by 
Pugascheff, who had an aversion to any one who 
wore his hair long, as was then the fashion 
among the Russian officers. For this reason, 
the Colonel was hanged. Then, well furnished 
with implements of war, Pugascheff marched to 
the fortress of Nisnaya Osfernaya, which he 
also captured after a short siege. All those who 
would not take up his cause, he killed. 
Pugascheff now commanded 4,oo0 men, and 
was therefore in a position to attack the 
stronghold of Talitseva, the defenders of which 
were led by two brave men, Bilof and Yelagin by 
name. The Russians entrenched themselves well 
in face of the rebels, and; in all probability, 


103 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


would have been victorious if their stores of 
hay had not been burned up. The light of this 
fire was of much assistance to the rebels. Bilof 
and Yelagin were driven out of the gates, and 
killed. When the pseudo-Tsar entered the 
town, a wonderfully beautiful woman came to 
him in the market-place, and fell at his feet, 
crying for mercy. The woman was very fair, 
and the grief and excitement under which she 
was labouring made her still more attractive. 

‘“For whom do you ask pardon?”’ 

‘For my husband, who was wounded while 
fighting against you.” 

‘“What is your husband’s name?” 

‘“‘Captain Chaloff, the commander of the fort.” 

A noble-hearted man would undoubtedly 
have made both husband and wife happy by the 
gift of their freedom. A profligate would have 
killed the husband and taken the wife for him- 
self. Pugascheff hanged them both. He knew 
perfectly well that there were many still living 


who remembered that Peter III. was not a lover . 


of women, and he acted his part consistently 
to the end. 

The rebels seemed to move on wings. The 
taking of Talicseva was followed by the capture 
of Czernoyecinskaya. The commander of the 
latter place fled at the approach of the rebel 
leader, and gave over the defence of the fortress 
to Captain Nilsayeff, who surrendered out of 
hand. Pugascheff, who did’ not approve of 
officers who deserted to the enemy, hanged him 


104 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


without saying ‘‘Thank you.” The soldiers of 
the rank and file he spared, but he had their hair 
clipped, so that if, by any chance, they should 
escape, he would know them again. Finally, 
the last fortress in the district, Presistenska, 
situated not far from the capital, Orenburg, 
surrendered to the rebels, and in the evening of 
the same day Pugascheff encamped outside the 
walls of Orenburg with thirty cannon and a 
well-disciplined army. These things all hap- 
pened within a fortnight. In that time, he had 
captured six forts, cut a whole regiment to 
pieces, and created one of his own, with which 
he now attacked the capital of the province. — 
The Russian Empire is a land of great distances, 
and Pugascheff might have conquered half of it 
before anything could be done at St. Petersburg. 
He was nicknamed ‘‘the Marquis” by Katherine, 
who often in the Court circles laughed heartily 
about her extraordinary husband, on the way 
to reconquer his wife, the Tsarina. The gallows 
was to be his nuptial bed when he arrived. 
On the announcement of Pugascheff’s ap- 
proach, Reinsburg, the Governor of Orenburg, 
despatched a part of his army to attack the 
rebel. Colonel Biloff was in command, but he 
fared no better than many other hunters after 
big game do. His quarry was too much for 
him, and he never returned to Orenburg; 
instead, Pugascheff’s army appeared before its 
walls. Reinsburg then sent his most formidable 
regiment, under the command of Major Naumoff, 


105 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


to the attack. The pseudo-Tsar did not oppose 
it until it neared the mountains outside Oren- 
burg, when, with masked guns, he opened 
such a destructive fire upon the Russians 
that they were utterly defeated and forced to 
retire under cover of the town. Pugascheff then 
left his position in the mountains, and encamped 
on the plain before the walls of the fortress. 
The idea of both armies was to tire each other 
out by procrastination. Although it was but 
October, the plains on which Pugascheff had 
pitched his camp were covered .with snow, so 
that, instead of tents, he had huts made of oak 
branches. Each army had an ally of nature— 
the one, frost, and the other, hunger. Hunger 
eventually proved the stronger, Naumoff 
marched out of the fort, and made for the 
mountains which had shortly before been the ~ 
camping-ground of his opponent. His infantry 
charged upon the rebel troops, but Pugascheff 
suddenly changed his tactics, and flung his 
Cossacks upon the enemy’s flank, compelling 
him to seek safety in flight. Naumoff himself 
cut his way, at the head of his artillery, sword 
in hand, through the Cossack lines. Then 
Pugascheff besieged the town. With his forty- 
eight guns, he commenced a bombardment which 
lasted until November 9th, when he attempted 
to take the town by assault. The attack was 
repulsed, however, the Russians making a 
stubborn defence. Pugascheff decided, there- 
fore, to starve his enemy into submission. The 


106 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


face of the country shone white with snow, the 
trees of the forests were silvered with icicles, and, 
throughout the long nights, the desert was 
transformed by the cold radiance of the. moon 
into an enchanting background for Pugascheff’s 
dream. For Pugascheff dreamed that one day 
he should be the spouse of Katherine, the Tsarina 
of All the Russias. 
Katherine II. was an inveterate player of 
tarok, and was especially fond of that species 
of the game which afterward ‘took its name 
from a famous Russian general, ‘‘Paskevics.”’ 
This game required four players. One evening, 
the quartet was made up of the Tsarina, 
Princess Dashkoff, Prince Orloff, and General 
Karr. The last-named was (prospectively) a 
celebrated soldier, and as a tarok-player he 
was without a rival. He rose from the table 
always victorious. No one ever had seen him 
lose money, and, for that reason, he fell into 
the good graces of the Tsarina. She was re- 
ported to have said that, if she could only once 
succeed in winning a rouble from Karr, she 
would wear it on a chain suspended from her 
neck. It is not unlikely -that General Karr’s 
success depended as much upon the errors of 
his opponents as upon his own skill. The atten- 
tion of the ladies was divided between the game 
and Orloff’s beautiful eyes, while Orloff’s success 
with the fair sex was so great that he could 
hardly be expected to have equal luck at cards. 
At one point of the game, while the cards were 


107 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


being shuffled, the remark was made that it 
was disgraceful that an escaped Cossack like 
Pugascheff should be able to sukdue a fourth 
part of European Russia, to defeat the flower 
of the Russian troops times without number, to 
execute Russian officers like criminals, and, 
finally, to make terms tor the surrender of 
Orenburg like a prince of the blood. 

“T know the fellow very well,’’ said Karr. 
‘“While His Majesty was living, I used to play 
cards with Pugascheff at Oranienbaum. But 
he was a dull-witted chap. Whenever I called 
for carreau, he would give me ceur.”’ 

‘“‘His play has evidently not improved much 
since then,’ said the Tsarina; ‘‘for now he 
throws pique after ceur.”’ 

It was at that time the custom at the Russian 
court to interlard conversation with French 
phrases. The French word ceur means heart, 
and piquer to prick or annoy. 

‘‘No wonder, when our generals are so in- | 
competent. Now, if I were only there!” 

‘Perhaps you will do us the favour of going?” 
said Orloff, with a smile. . 

“IT am at Her Majesty’s service,’’ replied 
General Karr. 

‘“But what would become of our tarok parties 
if you were not here,’ laughingly put in the 
Tsarina. 

“Well, your Majesty might console yourself 
with a hunting party now and then at Peterhof.” 

The suggestion found favour with Katherine, 


108 


x 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


for it was at Peterhof that she had become 
acquainted with Orloff, and she had passed many 
pleasant hours there. She smilingly nodded to 
the General. 

“Very well, then, but you must be back in a 
fortnight.” 

‘*A fortnight is, indeed, a short time,” returned 
Karr; ‘‘but if your Majesty wishes, I shall take 
sledge within the hour, and on the third day 
shall be in Bugulminska. On the fourth day, I 
shall arrange my cards, and, on the fifth, I 
shall send word to this feilow that I challenge 
him to a game. On the sixth day, I shall defeat 
him at every point, and, on the seventh and 
eighth days, by playing my last trick, I shall 
take him prisoner, and bring him in chains to 
your Majesty’s feet.” 

The odd way in which the card-playing 
general expressed himself was too much for 
Katherine’s gravity, but she instructed Orloff 
to take the necessary steps to see that Karr was 
furnished with everything he required. An 
imperial ukase was issued by which Karr was 
entrusted with the command of the South 
Russian troops. The forces under him com- 
prised 20,000 infantry and 2,000 cavalry under 
General Freyman at Bugulminska, 15,000 
troops under Colonel Czernicseff, Governor of 
Zinbirsk, and two detachments of the Life Guard 
under Colonel Naumann, the latter being 
generally considered the flower of the Russian 
army. 

199 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


General Karr left that night for the scene of 
action. Although he prided himself on the. 
celerity of his movements, he omitted to take 
into consideration one important point in such 
tactics. His illustrious models, Alexander the 
Great, Frederick the Great, Hannibal, etc., were 
also in the habit of moving quickly, but they 
took their troops with them, while Karr thought 
it more expedient to travel alone. But, even 
so, he did not go fast enough. A Cossack 
horseman who left St. Petersburg at the same 
time as he did arrived a day and a half ahead 
of him, informed Pugascheff of his coming, and 
acquainted him with the disposition of General 
Karr’s troops. Pugascheff at once sent a 
body of Cossacks to attack the General’s rear, 
and thus prevent his meeting with the Life 
Guard. 

General Karr did not allow any one at Bugul- 
minska to interfere with his plans. They were 
absolutely settled, and nothing that his colleague 
Freyman might suggest could alter them. He 
said it was not so much a matter of war. as of 
the chase. This wild animal must be captured 
alive, if possible. Czernicseff, with 1,200 troop- 
ers and twelve guns, must already be near 
at hand, as he had been instructed by Karr to 
cross the river Szakmara and oppose Pugascheff’s 
retreat. In the meantime, Karr himself, with 
picked men, would attack himin the van. Thus, 
Pugascheff would be caught between two fires. ° 
Czernicseff hardly thought his superior ignorant 


IIo 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


enough to allow him to be attacked by the 
overwhelming force of his antagonist, nor did he 
think that Pugascheff would show such a lack of 
tactical knowledge as to bring all his troops to 
bear on a small detachment, while before him 
lay a powerful army. But, in point of fact, 
both these things happened. Pugascheff calmly 
allowed the enemy to cross the frozen river, and 
then attacked him on both flanks, taking the 
precaution to break the ice in his rear. The 
entire force was destroyed, and twelve guns 
captured. Czernicseff and thirty-five officers 
who were taken prisoners were hanged on trees 
along the roadside. Then Pugascheff, intoxi- 
cated with his success, hurled his entire army 
against Karr. The two forces met at a Cossack 
village about thirty-six miles from Bugulminska. 
To General Karr’s astonishment, instead of 
meeting an undisciplined mob, he had to contend 
with a veteran army, well furnished with cannon. 
Freyman advised him, now that he was de- 
prived of the services of Czernicseff’s squadron, 
not to begin operations with the cavalry, but to 
entrench himself in the village and await the 
enemy’s attack. A series of surprises then 
befell Karr. He saw the supposed mob ad- 
vancing with drawn swords; saw that they did 
not flinch before the hottest fire. He blanched 
at the intrepid bravery with which they: charged 
the position he had fancied secure. These men 
that he had considered bandits were heroes. 
But what irritated him most of all was that 


IIt 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


these Cossacks knew how to serve their guns. 
In St. Petersburg, Cossacks are not enlisted in 
the artillery, in order that they may not learn, 
how to use cannon Yet here the guns, but 
recently captured, were served as if their gunners 
had been a lifetime at the work, and their 
balls had already set the village on fire in several 
places. General Karr ordered his entire force 
to the charge, while, with his reserves, he at- 
tacked the enemy’s flank, -driving it) im =But, 
among the 1,500 horsemen under his command, 
300 were Cossacks, and these took advantage 
of the thick of the battle to desert to the enemy. 
When General Karr saw this, his consternation 
was so great that he wavered, and fled. Throw- 
ing disciptine to the winds, his soldiers abandoned 
their comrades at the firing line, and retreated 
in disorder. 

Pugascheff’s Cossacks pursued the Russians 
for a distance of thirty miles, but did not succeed 
in capturing the General, whose fear had lent 
him wings. When he arrived at Bugulminska, 
he learned that Czernicseff’s cavalry had been 
cut to pieces, that the Life Guard had been taken 
prisoners, and that twenty-one guns had fallen 
into the hands of the rebels. These untoward 
tidings gave him such a bad cold in the head 
that he was sent back to St. Petersburg, where 
the tdrok party awaited him. That very 
evening he was «anlucky enough to lose his 
twenty-first card, which caused the Tsarina to 
remark that it was not the first loss of a similar 


LL2 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


number (referring to the twenty-one guns) 
that he had incurred, an observation which 
provoked much laughter at the Russian court. 

This victory marked the zenith of Pugascheff’s 
‘success. Perhaps he might have gone on 
further still, had he remained true to the two 
tremendous passions which had been the. cause 
of his rapid rise—the one being to marry the 
Tsarina, the other to grind the nobility under 
his feet. Which of these two purposes was the 
bolder? From their realisation, he was pre- 
vented only by the merest circumstance. The 
defeat of General Karr had given him an open 
path to Moscow, where 100,000 serfs were only 
awaiting his coming to revolt against the tyranny 
of the aristocracy and to form a new Russian 
Empire. Forty million slaves awaited their 
liberator in the person of the Cossack pretender. 
But he suddenly lost the firmness, the ideals 
and the ambitions that had theretofore possessed 
him—and all through a pair of beautiful eyes. 

The victory of Bugulminska was the signal 
for the coming of a number of envoys from the 
Bashkirs with promises of allegiance. One of 
these envoys brought him a young girl to be his 
wife. The name of this girl was Uliyanka, and, 
from the moment that Pugascheff set eyes on 
her, his heart no longer belonged to the Tsarina. 
The Cossack now had such faith in the virtue 
of his star that ‘ie did not act with his usual 
strictness. Uliyanka became his favourite, and 
he appointed Salavke, her father, to be ruler of 


aoe 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


the Bashkirs. Then he gathered about his 
person all manner of pomp and ceremony. He 
clothed himself in the finest court costumes, and 
decorated his companions with medals taken 
from the bodies of the Russian officers he had 
slain. He created them _ generals, colonels, 
counts, and princes. The Cossack Czika, his 
prime adherent, was appointed generalissimo, 
and to this man he gave over the command of 
half his army. He made an issue of roubles 
bearing his portrait under the title of Tsar 
Peter III., and published a circular with the 
words, ‘‘Redivivus et ultor.”’” Having no silver 
mines, he ordered the coins to be struck from 
copper, which was plentiful. This example, by 
the way, was also followed by the Russians, who 
issued copper roubles by the million, and made 
generous use of them in the payment of debts. 

Pugascheff now substituted for the comedy 
of a rebellion the farce of a reign. Instead of 
marching against the unprotected cities of the 
Empire, he besieged its fortresses, and, for- 
getting the fair ideal of his dreams, he consoled 
himself with the sordidness of a woman of the 
people. : 

Czika, the generalissimo, was ordered to take 
. the fortress of Ufa with the troops under his 
command. It was now the month of January 
1774, and the winter was the coldest ever known 
in the country’s history. »The forest trees split 
with a noise like thunder, and the birds of the 
air were frozen as they flew. To engage in 


II4 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


siege operations under such conditions was 
impossible. The. earth hardened to such a 
depth that trenches could not be dug, and it 
was almost impossible to live in tents on the 
open plain. 

The neighbouring towns had already been 
occupied by the rebel leaders, who thus cut off 
all supplies from the Russians. In Orenburg, 
they had already eaten the garrison horses, and 
the commissary, Kicshoff by name, was seized © 
with the idea of boiling the skins of the slaugh- 
tered animals,.cutting them into slices, and mix- 
ing them with paste. This food, so-called, was 
given out to the soldiers, and caused the ravage 
of a disease among the garrison that incapaci- 
tated half the troops. On January 13th, 
Colonel Vallenstiern endeavoured to cut his 
way through the enemy’s lines. He took with 
him 2,500 men, but returned with less than 
seventy. The remainder were left on the field. 
Certainly, they required no more food. <A few 
hundred hussars, however, succeeded in breaking 
through, and these men carried to St. Petersburg 
the news of what Tsar Peter III. (who was now 
enjoying his seventh resurrection) was doing. 
The Tsarina began to tire of the homage of her 
admirers, so she called together her generals, 
and asked which of them was willing to head an 
expedition, in the depth of winter, into the 
wilderness of snows. This meant no game at 
war; it meant attempting the subjection of a 
powerful force, which, if not checked, would soon 


115 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


be a match for the most efficient troops of Europe. — 
Four men replied that in Russia nothing was 
impossible. The names of these four men were 
Prince Galiczin, General Bibikoff, Colonel Larion- 
off, and Michelson, a Swedish officer. But 
their number was soon reduced to two. The 
first battle of Bozal proved too much for Larion- 
off, who returned home, defeated. The hardships 
of the campaign spelt the end of Bibikoff’s 
usefulness, for he died on the snow-swept plain. 

Only Galiczin and Michelson were left. The 
Swede had already become famous by reason of 
his prowess in the Turkish wars, but, when he 
marched from the fortress of Bozal against the 
rebels, his troops consisted of no more than 400 
cavalry and 600 infantry, with four guns. 
With this small force, he attempted the relief 
of the fortress of Ufa. But, though his move- 
ments were speedy, those of Czika’s spies were 
speedier still, and the rebel chieftain was ap- 
prised not only of the approach of the enemy, 
but also of their numerical weakness. He 
anticipated that they merely intended to rein- 
force the garrison of Ufa, so he despatched 
against them only 3,000 men, with nine guns, 
ordering them to hold the mountain passes which 
blocked the way to Ufa. But Michelson chose 
another route. His men travelled on sledges, 
and so fast did they proceed that, when they 
reached Czika’s camp and attacked his vanguard, 
nobody opposed them. The panic-stricken 
rebels fled, leaving two guns in Michelson’s 


116 


A Fight for the Tsarina — 


possession. The Swede knew well that the 
sound of the guns would act as a signal for the 
arrival of the enemy’s 3,000 men who occupied 
the passes, and that he was in danger of being 
caught between two fires; so he hurriedly 
entrenched 200 of his men beneath their sledges, 
while, with the remainder of his troops, he 
advanced to the town of Czernakuka, the desti- 
nation of Czika’s fleeing forces. Losing no 
time, Michelson threw himself in the forefront 
of his hussars, and charged the main body of 
the enemy. This bold and unexpected attack 
was demoralising in its effect; the centre of the 
camp broke, and, in a few moments, Michelson 
found himself in possession of a battery of 
cannon. He then directed his attention to the 
right and left wings. The result of the surprise 
was that Czika’s troops were utterly routed, 
leaving behind them fifty-six guns. The victor 
then retraced his steps to the spot where he had 
left his 200 men entrenched beneath their 
sledges, and, with this addition to his forces, 
entirely surrounded the enemy, who surrendered 
after leaving many dead on the field. The 
conquering Swede notified the commander of 
the Ufa garrison that the road was clear, and that 
he would soon receive the cannon captured 
from the enemy. When about a hundred and 
twenty versts distant from Ufa, he came up 
with Czika, who, with forty-two of his officers, 
was endeavouring to escape. Michelson cap- 
tured them all, and that they were not all 


117 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


hanged was due only to the fact that ae plain 
was destitute of trees. 

Prince Galiczin, in the meantime, was pur- 
suing Pugascheff. The Russian general had 
with him 6,o0o0 men, but he did not catch up 
with the pretender until the first days of March. 
Pugascheff awaited his enemy at Taticseva. 
This so-called fortress, which was surrounded by 
wooden walls, may have been sufficient to 
protect sheep from robbers, but it was certainly 
not fit for warlike defence. The rebel leader, 
however, did not lose his head, and proved him- 
self no mean opponent. He covered the fences 
surrounding the fort with snow, on which he 
poured water, rendering them almost as solid as 
stone, and at the same time so slippery that no 
one could surmount them. Here he awaited 
Galiczin with a part of his army, the main 
body of which occupied Orenburg. The Russian 
general approached cautiously. The fog was 
so thick that the opposing bodies perceived each 
other only when they were within firing distance. 
A fierce hand-to-hand combat followed. Puga- 
scheff, at the head of the flower of his troops, was 
always to be found where danger threatened, 
but his efforts were fruitless. The Russians 
finally succeeded in crossing the ice walls, 
capturing his cannon, and driving him out of the 
stronghold. The victory was complete, but it 
was attained at the cost of the lives of a thousand 
Russians. Pugascheff retreated with 4,000 men 
and seven guns, but with the loss of his prestige 


118 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


and of his belief in his star. The Tsar, who but 
yesterday had proclaimed his campaign of 
revenge, was now compelled to go back to the 
desert, which did not receive him kindly. Only 
now did the real terrors of the campaign begin. 
It was a war such as can be carried on only in 
Russia, where, in the thousands and thousands 
of acres of desert, bands of wild marauders 
wander, all haters of the Empire and all eager 
for revenge. Pugascheff took refuge among 
these tribes. Again he attacked Galiczin at 
Kargozki, and again he was defeated, this 
time losing his last gun. Here Uliyanka, his 
favourite, was captured, if, indeed, she did not 
betray him to the enemy. He himself managed 
to escape only by fording the river Myaes on 
horseback. 

This is the border of Asia, and it is here that. 
Russia ends and Siberia begins. There are no 
longer any villages, but only military outposts, a 
day’s march distant from each other, and, along 
the ranges of the Ural Mountains, the so-called 
‘‘factories.”” The Wozkrezenzki factory, which is 
situated at a point about a day’s march from the 
mountains, is separated from the Zimski factory 
by virgin forests. In both of these factories, 
cinnamon and paints are made. Near at hand 
are the powder factory of Uzizka and the bomb 
factory of Zatkin, whose labourers are Russian 
convicts. At the junction of the rivers are 
several small towns, guarded by native Cossacks, 
while other towns are occupied by regular 


119 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Russian detachments that have fallen into 
disgrace. To this region came Pugascheff with 
what was left of his army. Galiczin followed 
him for some time, but finally decided that, ina 
country whose roads are marked only by trenches, 
the pursuit of an enemy whose only object was to 
get away as fast and as far as possible was hope- 
less. Pugascheff reinforced his meagre army 
from the tribes of the Ural district, who 
deserted their huts, and rallied to his standard. 

Suddenly the winter came to an end, and was 
followed by those soft, mellow April days which 
are seen only in Siberia, when at night the 
temperature sinks below the freezing point, 
while in the daytime the melting snow covers 
everything with water, every brook becomes a 
tiver, and every fiver a vast /oceanseaune 
pursued might still make progress in his sledge, 
but the pursuer would have a hard task con- 
fronting him in the wilderness of fathomless 
morasses. Yet the intrepid Michelson dared 
to follow Pugascheff under these almost hopeless 
conditions. Even as the Siberian wolf who has 
tasted the blood of his victim never leaves his 
track until he has run him down, so this bold 
Swede held to the pursuit of his opponent. All 
told, cavalry, gunners, and infantry, his forces 
consisted of no more than a thousand men. 
Each man had to carry provisions for a fortnight 
and i100 cartridges. The cavalry had guns as 
well as sabres, so that they would be in a position 
to fight on foot, and the gunners added axes to 


I20 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


their equipment, so that they might also do duty 
as sappers. All were prepared to swim if the 
occasion arose. With this force, Michelson 
pursued Pugascheff through innumerable hostile 
tribes, people who knew no mercy and whose 
language he did not understand. Yet he 
faced the danger intrepidly, even as the sailor 
smiles at the terrors of the deep. On May 7th, 
he was attacked near the Zimski factory by the 
father of the girl, Uliyanka, who was leading 
2,000 Bashkirs to Pugascheff’s support. Michel- 
son defeated them, and captured their cannon. 
From one of his prisoners, he learned that 
Beloborodoff, one of the dukes created by 
Pugascheff, was in the neighbourhood with a 
large force of Russian soldiers who had deserted 
from the regular ranks. Michelson surprised 
them near the river Yeresen, and forced them to 
take refuge in the Zatkin factory. He rode 
along to the walls of the factory, and, when he 
was so near that his voice could be distinctly 
heard, he began to rebuke them for their deser- 
tion, and urged them to return to their old 
allegiance. More than two thousand shots were 
directed at him from the windows of the factory, 
but, when the soldiers saw that he remained 
unharmed, they believed him to be invulnerable, 
threw open the gates, and joined his army. 
From these men, Michelson learned Pugascheff’s 
plans—that he had captured three fortresses, 
Magitnaya, Stepnaya, and Petroluskaya, and 
was at that moment laying siege to Troiczka. 


I21 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


But Michelson arrived too late to save the last- 
named stronghold. When he arrived there, he 
found nothing but ruins, dead bodies, and the 
remains of Russian officers hanging from trees. 
Pugascheff, who had heard of his opponent’s. 
approach, laid a cunning trap to capture his 
pursuer. He decked out some of his own 
soldiers in the uniforms of the dead Russians, 
and sent them as messengers to Michelson — 
conveying word that Colonel Colon would meet 
him near Varlamora. It was not until he was 
_attacked, and two of his guns captured, that 
Michelson perceived the ruse by which he had 
been deceived. But, although surrounded on 
all sides, he at once charged Pugascheff’s centre, 
cut his opponent’s forces in two, and turned 
seeming defeat into victory. Pugascheff fled 
with only a few hundred followers, and escaped 
into the interior of Siberia. | 

But Michelson’s troubles were not yet over. 
He suddenly found Zalavatka in his rear with 
a Bashkir force, he having already reduced the 
Zatkin factory and slaughtered all its inmates, 
including women and children. The Bashkirs 
held a strong position near the river Aie. They 
had destroyed the bridges, and confidently 
awaited Michelson’s advance. At dawn, Michel- 
son ordered forty of his cavalry, each man 
taking besides a rifleman behind him, to swim 
the river and hold the opposite bank until the 
rest of the troops joined them. In this way, 
the Russians crossed the river without a bridge, 


I22 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


dragging after them their cannon tied to trees. 
The Bashkirs fled, but, while Michelson was 
chasing them with his cavalry, his artillery 
was attacked by a fresh force, and-he was 
compelled to return to their help. It was 
Pugascheff himself who, backed by well-equipped 
troops, was his new opponent. The fight went 
on for many hours, but late at night the rebels 
retreated, and marched, under cover of darkness, 
to the fortress of Ufa. But Michelson learned 
their destination, cut his way through the forest, 
and again met Pugascheff before the walls of 
Ufa. Michelson again won the battle, but his 
soldiers were in a lamentable condition. Hardly 
a whole piece of clothing or an intact boot 
could be found among them, and their ammuni- 
tion had declined to two charges’ apiece. So 
he retreated to Ufa to replenish his equipment. 

After Michelson had driven Pugascheff away 
from Ufa, the pretender utterly routed the 
Russian leaders who had been sent against him 
from other directions. The forces of London, 
Melgunoff, Duve, and Jacubovics melted before 
him, and, in their very presence, he set fire to 
the town of Birsk. He reduced the fortress of 
Ossa, where he found guns and ammunition, and 
then advanced with remarkable speed upon 
Kazan. Kazan is the seat of an archbishop, and 
there is kept the crown used by the Tsars at 
coronation. If Pugascheff could get the Arch- 
bishop of Kazan to place this crown on his head, 
who could deny that he was the Tsar of All the 


123 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Russias? The defenders of Kazan consisted of 
only 1,500 riflemen, under Generals Brand and 
Banner, but the citizens of the town rallied 
vigorously to the walls. The day before the 
siege began, General Potemkin, accompanied by 
General Larionoff, arrived at Kazan. The 
Russian camp was overrun with generals, but, 
nevertheless, the rebel troops carried the place. 
Pugascheff himself was the first to scale the 
walls. Larinoff fled to Nijni Novgorod, and 
the other generals took refuge in the citadel. 
Pugascheff gave up the town to the tender 
mercy of his soldiers. The Archbishop of 
Kazan received him at the cathedral, and made 
him a gift of half a million roubles in gold. The 
crown had been carried off to the citadel, but 
the archbishop promised to crown him with it as 
soon as it was obtainable. Pugascheff set fire 
to all quarters of the town, hoping thereby to 
instil terror into the hearts of those in the 
citadel. But Michelson was still to be reckoned 
with. He was now on his way to Kazan, hardly 
allowing his troops time to sleep en route. He 
sent no news, but where he marched he left his 
mark. At Burnova, he dispersed a force of 
rebels who attacked him. At Brayevana, he 
defeated another detachment. At the fortress 
of Ossa, he learned that Pugascheff had crossed 
the river Kuma. Then he knew that he would 
find the pseudo-Tsar at Kazan. He found no 
boats on the river Kuma, so he swam it. Two 
other rivers were crossed in the same way. 


124 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


When he arrived at Arkz, he heard the noise of 
cannon in the direction of Kazan. Giving his 
men time for only one hour’s sleep, he marched 
through the night, and at dawn he saw by the 
smoke on the horizon that Kazan was in flames. 
When Pugascheff’s outposts sent word to their 
leader that Michelson was approaching, he 
cursed. Was this man a devil, that he should 
be at his very walls when he believed him to be 
300 miles away? He decided at all cost to keep 
the news from the garrison in the citadel. He 
stationed a portion of his men in the town of 
Tazicsin, seven miles out of Kazan, to obstruct 
the onward march of his hated foe. 

He then proclaimed himself Tsar Peter III. 
But, in the middle of the ceremony, which was 
held in the market-place of Tazicsin, a haggard 
woman rushed to his feet and covered him with 
kisses. It was Tugascheff’s wife, who had 
thought her husband long since dead. They 
had married very young, and Pugascheff himself 
believed her in her grave; but the poor woman 
recognised him by his voice. Pugascheff re- 
mained calm. He lifted the woman to her feet, 
and said to an officer standing by: ‘This 
woman’s husband was a dear and valued friend 
of mine. See that she is cared for.’’ But every 
one suspected that he himself was the husband 
of Marianka, and the incident made a profound 
impression on the rebel forces. The next 
morning, Michelson sent word into the town 
that he was coming, and requested the assistance 


125 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


of all loyal troops. Pugascheff attacked him 
with fury, and for a time it seemed as if fortune 
had again favoured him. On the third day of 
the conflict, when Michelson was entirely sur- 
rounded, he put himself at the head of his small 
force, and charged Pugascheff’s army with the 
impetuosity born of despair. The rebels’ line 
was broken, and they fled, leaving 3,000 dead on 
the field, and 5,000 men taken prisoners. 
Kazan was free, but Russia was still in danger. 
After his defeat at Kazan, Pugascheff fled, but 
not toward Siberia. This time, he marched 
straight toward Moscow, the heart of the Russian 
Empire. As soon as he had crossed the Volga, 
the people began to join his standard, and the 
old revolt of the peasantry against the nobility 
was enflamed into new vigour. ‘One after 
another, the towns opened their gates to Puga- 
scheff, and every castle within a radius of one 
hundred miles was burned to the ground. The 
farther he advanced, the larger his army became. 
Forts were occupied, towns burned and looted, 
and the troops which gave the rebels battle 
routed. In the battle of Zariczin, every Russian 
officer was killed, and the entire force captured. 
Pugascheff now had under his command 25,000 
men and a large number of cannon, and the way 
to Moscow would have been open to him if the 
dreaded Michelson had not been in his rear. 
This remarkable man feared no enemy, however 
formidable, and he actually drove before him 
Pugascheff’s large force, as the tiger chases a 


126 


A Fight for the Tsarina 


herd of boars. The pretender felt that this man 
was his evil star. Just beyond the town of 
Sarepta, he found a convenient battle-ground, 
and there he disposed his army. It was on a 
hill which is divided by a steep foot-path, this 
path being intersected by another. Pugascheff 
stationed his best men on the ascending path 
while the remainder he sent to cover his flanks. 
if Michelson used his ordinary method of attack, 
he would advance up the little path leading to 
the steeper one, and, if he then succeeded, his 
opponents could advance from both ends of the 
intersecting road, and so cut him to pieces. But 
Michelson was not to be caught so easily. While 
he bombarded the position with his artillery, he 
himself, with Colonel Melin, attacked both 
flanks of the enemy. Pugascheff saw that he 
was spitted on his own toasting-fork. His 
retreating flanks were harried by the fire intended 
for his opponent’s troops, and, in order to escape, 
he had to cut his way through the ranks of his own 
men. He fled with only sixty men, crossed the 
Volga, and secreted himself in the forests. His 
last battle had been fought. 

The Russian troops surrounded the forest in 
which Pugascheff and his men were hiding. 
Yet his dreams were still of glory. In the 
wilderness, he pictured the shining dome of the 
Kremlin, and the Tsarina reclining at his feet. 
For days and nights, his food consisted of horse- 
flesh, eaten with meadow-grass instead of salt. 
One night, as he was preparing his frugal meal 


I27 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


before the fire, one of the three Cossacks who 
were all his remaining army, said to him, “‘ Your 
comedy is played out, Pugascheff!’’ The pre- 
tender leaped to his feet with the words, ‘‘ Fool, 
I am your Tsar!’’ At the same time, he cut 
the speaker to the ground. The two others 
rushed at him, bound him hand and foot, tied him 
to the back of a horse, took him to Ural Sorodok, 
and gave him up to General Zuvaroff. This 
was the very Ural Sorodok from which he had 
set out on his self-appointed mission. He was 
taken to Moscow, where he was condemned to be 
sliced in pieces while still alive. The sentence 
was confirmed by the Tsarina, although her 
beautiful eyes were the cause of the adventurer’s 
terrible end. But the executioner was more 
merciful. There was no clause in the sentence 
stating where the process of slicing should begin, 
so be began with the head—for which bit of 
tenderness he was exiled to Siberia. It was just 
about this time that Katherine changed her 
favourite. Potemkin, quite a handsome man, 
took Orloff’s place. 


128 


A PASSION IN THE DESERT 
BY 


HonorE DE Bauzac 


‘““Wuat a frightful exhibition !’’ she exclaimed, 
as we were leaving the menagerie of M. Martin, 
where she had just been watching that intrepid 
performer—to use the expression of the adver- 
tisement—‘‘working’’ with his hyena. 

““By what means,” she continued, ‘‘can he 
have trained his animals so well that he is 
sufficiently certain of their affection to fa 

‘“Why,” I interrupted, ‘‘what seems such an 
enigma to you is really very natural.” 

“‘Oh!”” she exclaimed with an incredulous 
smile. 

‘““Do you consider beasts entirely without 
passions?”’ I asked. ‘“‘If so, let me assure you 
it is in our power to teach them all the vices 
‘which belong to our own state of civilisation.”’ 

She looked at me in astonishment. 

‘‘However,’ I resumed, ‘‘when’ I saw M. 
Martin for the first time, I confess that I, like 
you, uttered an exclamation of surprise. I 
was standing at the time beside an old soldier 
who had come in with me, and whose appearance 
I found very interesting. His right leg had 
been amputated; his head, with its fearless poise, 


129 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


was marked with the scars of war, and told 
of Napoleon’s battles. There was a certain 
frankness and good humour: about this old 
veteran which prejudiced me at once in his 
favour. No doubt, he was one of those troopers 
whom nothing can surprise; who find something 
amusing even in the dying spasms of a comrade, 
and shroud him or strip him with equal want 
of compunction; who are proof against bullets, 
quick to reach conclusions, and who hold 
fellowship with the Devil. He had watched the 
proprietor of the. menagerie very attentively, 
and, as the latter was leaving the cage, my 
companion’s face assumed an expression of 
‘mocking disdain such as the wise assume to 
distinguish themselves from ordinary fools. 

‘“When I made a remark about the courage 
of M. Martin, he smiled in a knowing way, and 
answered with a toss of his head: 

“**Oh, that is a well-known trick.’ 

““*How is that? I should be much obliged, 
indeed, to have you explain the secret of it,’ 
I rejoined. 

" After a few’ minutes:spent aa getting ac- 
quainted, we went to dine at the first restaurant 
we found. A bottle of champagne with the 
dessert brought back past events to the mind of 
this curious old soldier with wonderful clearness, 
and he told me his story. I understood then 
why he could say ‘a well-known trick.’”’ 

When we reached her home, she coaxed me 
so much, and made so many promises, that I 


130 


A Passion in the Desert 


consented to write the tale of the old soldier, and 
the next day she received the following episode 
from an epic which might properly be entitled, 
“The French in Egypt.” 


At the time of the explorating tour of General 
Desaix into upper Egypt, a Provencal soldier 
had fallen into the hands of the Maugrabins, 
and was carried off by these Arabs into the desert 
beyond the Falls of the Nile. In order to puta 
safe distance between themselves and the 
French army, the Maugrabins proceeded by 
forced marches, and did not stop until evening. 
They pitched their camp about a well, sur- 
rounded by a fringe of palm-trees, near which 
they had previously buried some provisions. 
As they suspected no plans of escape on the 
part of their prisoner, they contented them- 
selves with tying his hands, and, after having 
eaten some dried dates and given fodder to the 
horses, they went to sleep. 

However, when the brave fellow saw that his 
enemies. were no longer watching him, he 
secured a scimetar with the aid of his teeth, and, 
holding the blade between his knees, he cut the 
cords depriving him of the use of his hands, and 
was free. He lost no-time in taking possession 
of arifleanda dagger, and providing himself with 
a hatchet, a supply of dried dates, a small sack 
of fodder, some powder and balls, he mounted a 
horse and spurred away in the direction of the 
French camp. His horse, however, was weary 


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from the day’s travel, and, as the Frenchman 
was anxious to be once more safe in camp, he 
urged the poor animal on until, with its flanks 
torn by the spurs, it fell dead from exhaustion, 
leaving its rider in the midst of the desert. 

For some time he proceeded on foot through 
the sand with all the desperation of a galley 
slave seeking freedom, but was obliged to stop 
as darkness vas coming on, and notwithstanding 
the splendour of the oriental heavens at night, 
he was too tired to go on. Fortunately, he had 
been able to reach a hillock at the summit of 
which grew a number of palms, the foliage of 
which had been visible a long way off, and. had 
awakened in the heart of the weary traveller the 
most pleasant anticipations. His exhaustion 
was so great that he threw himself down on a 
stone, shaped by capricious nature into the form 
of a camp-bed, and went to sieep without pre- 
cautions of any kind for self-defence. He had 
risked his life, but his last thought was one of 
regret. He already repented of leaving the 
Maugrabins, whose wandering life began to 
appeal to him, now that he was helpless ana 
far away from them. 

He was awakened by the sun, its rays falling ~ 
perpendicularly on the stone and heating it to 
anintolerable degree. Unfortunately, the soldier 
had taken his position on the side of the palms 
opposite to that on which the shadow of the 
foliage fell. He looked at those solitary trees, 
and was struck by their familiar appearance: 


132 


A Passion in the Desert 


they recalled to his mind the elegant shafts and 
crowns, the long leaves, characteristic of the 
cathedral of Arles. 

Having counted the trees,.he began to look 
about him, and the deepest despondency took 
possession of his soul. He saw before him a 
boundless ocean. In every direction, as far 
as the eye could reach, the sands of the desert 
glittered like the blade of a lance in a strong 
light. He could not teil whether it was a sea of 
glass, or a thousand lakes smooth like a mirror. 
Carried along in waves, a fiery vapour whirled 
over the shifting sand. The oriental sky shone 
in its hopeless brazenness; nothing was left for 
- the imagination to supply. Heaven and earth 
were on fire. 

The silence was fearful in its weird and 
terrible majesty. The infinity and boundless- 
ness of the whole oppressed the soul on every 
side. Not a cloud in the sky; not a breath in 
the air; not an incident to break the monotony 
on the wide expanse of those still, rippled sands. 
The horizon, like that of the open sea in fair 
weather, was marked by a line of light as straight 
and thin as if cut with the blade of a sword. 
The soldier embraced the trunk of one of the 
palms as if it were the body of a friend. 
Then, in the shelter of the straight, slender 
shadow which the tree cast upon the rock, he 
wept. Thus he remained for a time, looking 
with deep sadness upon the inexorable scene 
presented to his view. He called aloud as if to 


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sound the solitude, but his voice, almost lost. 
in the hollows of the hillock, came back with: 
hardly an echo. The echo was in his own heart. 
The man was only twenty years old, yet he 
loaded his rifle 

‘“There is always time enough for that,’ he 
said to himself, as he replaced the weapon of 
deliverance on the ground beside him. 

Looking about, now at the dusky earth and 
now at the blue sky, the soldier began to dream: 
of France. He recalled with almost a sense of 
pleasure the ill-smelling gutters of Paris; he 
Saw again the towns through which they had 
passed, the faces of his comrades, and the most. 
trifling incidents of his life. 

His southern imagination represented to him 
the stones of his beloved Provence in the waves 
of heat, undulating over what seemed to be a 
cloth spread in the desert. Fearing the dangers 
of a mirage to his reason, he descended the 
hillock upon the side opposite the one he had 
climbed the evening before. Here he made a 
discovery which made him rejoice. It was a 
sort of cave, formed by nature among the 
immense fragments of rock composing the 
hillock. The remnants of a mat told that this 
place of refuge had been made use of at some 
time. Furthermore, he perceived some date- 
palms, loaded with fruit, only a short distance 
away. Then the instinct which causes a human 
being to cling to life began to assert itself. 
He found himself hoping that he would live 


134 


4 
A Passion in the Desert 


muntil some band of Maugrabins should pass that .. 
way, or perhaps he would hear the roar of 
cannon, for at that very hour Napoleon was on 
his march through Egypt. 

Cheered by this thought, the Frenchman pro- 
ceeded to bring down some of the clusters of 
ripe fruit under the weight of which the date- 
palms seemed to bend. The flavour of this 
anhoped-for manna convinced him that the 
former occupant of the cave had cultivated the 
palms, the fresh, luscious. pulp proclaiming 
his predecessor’s skill. 

The Frenchman’s state of mind was suddenly 
changed from abject despair to almost silly joy 
He once more climbed the hill, and, during the 
remainder of the day, busied himself with 
cutting down one of the sterile trees which had 
afforded him shelter the night before. A 
vague reminiscence brought to his mind the 
thought of wild beasts of the desert, and, sur- 
mising the probability of their coming to drink 
from the spring which issued from the rock on 
which he lived, but which was soon swallowed 
up by the desert sand, he determined to insure 
himself against their visits by placing a barrier 
across the entrance to his hermitage. In spite 
of his industry, however, and the strength which 
fear of being devoured by wild animals, during 
sleep, gave him, he found it impossible to cut 
the tree into several pieces that day; but he did 
succeed in felling it. When, toward evening, 
this king of the sand tumbled down, the noise 


135 


9 
Masterpieces of Fiction 


of its fall resounded in the distance, and the 
very solitude seemed to groan. The soldier 
trembled as if he had heard a voice pronouncing 
a curse upon him, but, like the heir who does not 
long mourn the death of a relative, he cut away 
from the splendid tree the great, green fronds 
which are its picturesque ornament, and made 
use of them in repairing the mat upon which he 
intended to spend the night. Fatigued by the 
heat and labour of the day, he was soon sleeping 
soundly beneath the reddish ceiling of the damp 
cave. 

In the middle of the night, his sleep was broken 
by a peculiar sound. He sat upright, and the 
profound stillness enabled him to recognise the 
sound of breathing—but too deep and powerful 
to come from the chest of a human being. 

Profound fear, further augmented by the 
darkness, the silence and the working of his 
imagination, chilled his heart. He felt his hair 
stand on end. By straining his eyes until they 
almost started from their sockets, he perceived 
in the darkness two faint yellow lights. At 
first, he attributed these to the reflection of the 
fruit he had gathered, but soon the remarkable 
brilliancy of the night aided him by degrees to 
distinguish the objects about him in the cave, 
and he saw an enormous animal, lying on the 
ground a couple of feet away. 

Was it a lion—a tiger—a crocodile? 

The Frenchman’s education was not sufficient 
to help him determine to what species his enemy 


136 


A Passion in the Desert 


belonged, but his fear was only the greater as 
his ignorance allowed him to imagine all kinds 
of combined evils. He endured the torture of 
listening to the breath of the animal coming and 
going, not losing a sound, and not daring to 
make the least movement. 

An odour like that of a fox, only much more 
penetrating, heavier so to speak, filled the cave, 
and, when the Frenchman had blown it from his 
nostrils, his terror was supreme, for he could then 
no longer question the reality of that terrible 
companion’s presence, in whose royal dwelling 
he had encamped. Soon the reflection of the 
light, breaking in the east, illuminated the den, 
and produced an almost imperceptible lustre on 
the resplendent and spotted skin of a pan- 
ther. This specimen of the Egyptian lion slept 
rolled up like a great dog occupying a com- 
fortable berth at the door of his master’s 
house. Its face was turned toward the French- 
idan; its eyes opened for a. moment, then 
closed again. © 

A thousand confused thoughts passed through 
the mind of the panther’s prisoner. First, he 
wanted to kill it with a shot from his rifle, but 
he saw that there was not enough space between 
them to enable him to use this means, as the 
muzzle of the gun would reach beyond the 
animal. Andifitshouldawaken! That thought 
rendered him motionless. 

He could hear the beating of his heart in the 
midst of the silence, and cursed the pulsation 


137 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


caused by the rush of blood through his veins, 
dreading to disturb the sleep which afforded 
him an opportunity to plan an escape. He 
put both his hands on the scimetar with the idea. 
of severing the head of his enemy, put the 
difficulty of cutting that tough skin, covered 
with dense hair, led him to give up the idea. 
To attempt flight would be certain death, he 
thought. 

He preferred the chances of a fight, and 
decided to wait until daylight. He did not 
have long to wait. The Frenchman was now 
able to examine the panther more closely, and 
noticed that its muzzle was covered with blood. 

‘‘She has just eaten,” he thought, not taking 
the pains to consider whether the feast had 
been human flesh or not. . “She won pe 
hungry when she wakes.”’ 

It was a female. The fur on her belly and 
thighs was glistening white, and several velvet- 
like spots formed pretty bracelets about her 
paws. The muscular tail was of the same 
whiteness, but had a series of black rings en- 
circling the end. The upper skin, yellow like 
unburnished gold, and very sleek and soft, bore 
the characteristic spots, shaded in the form of 
rosettes, which distinguish the panther from 
other branches of the cat family. 

His calm, formidable hostess was snoring: 
away as contentedly as a household puss asleep: 
on an ottoman. Her bloody paws, sinewy 
and well armed, were stretched out in front of 


138 


A Passion in the Desert 


her, and her head, with its straight parted beard 
like threads of gold, rested upon them. 

If she had appeared thus in a cage, the French- 
man would certainly have admired the grace of 
the brute and the marked contrast of pro- 
nounced colours, which gave a royal splendour 
to her robe; but at that moment his appreciation 
of these points was marred by the threatening 
prospect. 7 

At the presence of the panther, even though 
she slept, he experienced the effect which the 
magnetic eyes of a serpent are said to produce 
upon a nightingale. 

The soldier’s courage failed him before this 
peril, though it would doubtless have been 
roused by cannon belching forth fire and shell. 
After all, a single courageous idea filled his 
mind, and dried the cold perspiration rolling down 
his’ forehead. As in the case of men whom 
misfortune drives to a point where they defy 
death, he saw, without being conscious of it, a 
tragedy in this adventure, and determined to 
play his rdle with horfour to the end. 

‘““The day before yesterday, the Arabs might 
have killed me,” he soliloquised, and, considering 
himself as dead, he awaited bravely, but with 
lively curiosity, the awakening of his enemy. 

When the sun rose, the panther suddenly 
opened her eyes, stretched out her legs as if to 
dissipate the cramp, and yawned—by this last 
operation displaying a formidable set of teeth 
and a grooved, rasp-like tongue. 


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‘“Why, she acts like a coquette,” thought the 
Frenchman, as he watched her rolling about, 
performing the prettiest and daintiest move- 
ments imaginable. She licked the blood-stains 
from her paws and muzzie, and stroked her head 
several times very gently. 7 

‘“Well, I suppose I might make my toilet, 
too,’ said the Frenchman to himself, as his 
reviving courage somewhat restored his sense 
of humour. ‘‘We are going to wish each other 
good morning.”’ With this remark, he possessed 
himself of the dagger stolen from the Mau- 
grabins. 

At this moment, the panther turned her 
head toward the Frenchman, and looked at. 
him steadily. The fixedness of “those™ steety, 
eyes and their almost intolerable glare made 
the man shudder the more so as the animal 
began to approach him. But he looked at her 
affectionately, and, fixing his eyes upon her, as. 
if he wished to mesmerise her, he permitted her 
to come very close; then he passed his hand 
along her body from head to tail, stroking her 
as gently and lovingly as if he were caressing a 
beautiful woman. He could feel the projections 
which marked the vertebre of her supple spine; 
the animal raised her tail at the agreeable 
sensation, and the expression of her eyes became 
more gentle. When the Frenchman repeated. 
this interesting blandishment for the third time, 
she began to purr as our cats do when expressing, 
pleasure. But the sound coming from the 


140 


A Passion in the Desert 


throat of this animal was so deep and strong 
that it reverberated through the cave like the 
low notes of a church organ. The soldier, 
understanding the value of his caresses, re- 
doubled them in his efforts to intoxicate this 
exacting courtesan. ' 

When he felt sure of having allayed the 
ferocity of his capricious companion, whose 
hunger had so fortunately been satisfied the 
night before, he arose and left the cave. The 
panther permitted his departure, to be sure, but, 
when he had climbed the hill, she bounded after 
him with the lightness of a sparrow hopping 
from branch to branch, and rubbed herself 
against his legs, at the same time curving her 
back like a cat. She looked at her visitor with 
a much less savage expression, and uttered that 
peculiar sound which naturalists compare to the 
grating of a saw. ‘‘She certainly is exacting,” 
thought the Frenchman, with a smile. 

He tried playing with her ears, stroked her 
belly, and scratched her head briskly with his 
nails, and, perceiving his success, even pricked 
her skull with the point of his dagger, intending 
to kill her at once. But the hardness of the 
bone caused him to doubt.the success of such 
an attempt. 

This sultana of the desert gave evidence of 
her appreciation of the efforts of her slave by 
raising her head and stretching her neck, giving 
further proof of her pleasure by the contented 
attitude she assumed. It suddenly occurred 


141 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


to the Frenchman that, in order to slay this 
savage princess with a single blow, he must 
stab her in the throat, and he raised his arm 
accordingly. Then the panther, doubtless sa- 
tiated with his caresses, laid herself gently at 
his feet, giving him a glance now and then 
which, in spite of her natural ferocity of ex- 
pression, bore a certain amount of good-will. 
The poor fellow ate his dates, leaning against a 
tree, looking,now across the desert in search of 
a deliverer, and then again at the panther to 
assure himself of her uncertain clemency. 
The panther looked suspiciously at the ground 
where the date stones fell, as he dropped them 
one by one. She watched the movements of 
the Frenchman with businesslike care. The 
conclusion reached as the result of her observa- 
tion of him must have been favourable. When 
he had finished his meal, she began licking his 
shoes, completely removing the dust caked in 
the wrinkles of the leather, with her long, rough 
tongue. 

‘‘Ah, but when she gets hungry!” thought the 
soldier. In spite of the uneasiness which this 
thought gave him, he became absorbed in . 
measuring the proportions of the panther with 
his eyes. She was certainly one of the finest 
specimens of her class, being not less than three 
feet in height and five in length, not counting 
her tail. This powerful member was fully 
three feet long, and rounded like a cudgel. 
Her head, as large as that of a lioness, gave 


Ta2 


A Passion in the Desert 


indications of gteat shrewdness, and, although 
the cold cruelty characteristic of the tiger 
family dominated its expression, there was 
in the effect of it something which made him 
think of aclever woman. The whole appearance 
of this solitary queen suggested the gayety of 
a drunken Nero. She had quenched her thirst 
with blood, and now wished to be amused. 

The soldier tried walking back and forth, 
which the panther allowed, contenting herself 
with following him with her eyes. She seemed 
less like a faithful dog, however, than a great 
angora, suspicious of everything, even her 
master’s movements. In looking about, he 
saw the carcass of his horse beside the spring, 
whither the panther had dragged it. About 
two-thirds of it was eaten. This discovery 
somewhat reassured the Frenchman; it was no 
trouble now to explain the absence of the panther 
on the evening before and the respect she had 
shown for him during his sleep. 

Fortune having so far favoured him, he 
resolved to take his chances for the future. 
His purpose was to remain peaceably with the 
panther for the rest of the day, neglecting no 
opportunity of taming her and winning her 
favour. 

Having decided upon his plan, he returned to 
her, and had the great satisfaction of seeing her 
wag her tail slightly. He sat down beside 
her, and began to play with her, holding her 
paws and her muzzle, turning back her ears, 


z 143 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


rolling her over on her back, ‘and rubbing her 
soft, warm sides. She evidently enjoyed these 
attentions, and, when he stroked the fur on 
her paws, she carefully drew in her curved claws. 

The Frenchman, who throughout this. per- 
formance had kept one hand on his dagger, still 
thought of plunging it into the side of the over- 
confident panther, but feared being killed by 
her during her death-struggle. On the other 
hand, he was conscious of a touch of pity moving 
him to spare such a harmless creature. 

It seemed as though he had found a friend in 
‘that boundless desert. He thought of his first 
mistress, whom he had called ‘‘Mignon,” by 
way of antithesis, for she was of such an atro- 
ciously jealous disposition that, during all the 
time that their passion lasted, he had lived in 
constant fear of the knife with which she threat- 
ened him. This reminiscence of his youth 
suggested the idea of naming the panther whose 
agility, grace, and gentleness he admired in 
proportion as his fear decreased. 

By evening, he had become accustomed to 
his perilous position, and almost liked the 
danger of it. The education of his companion 
meanwhile had so far progressed that she would 
look at him when he called ‘‘Mignon’’ in a 
falsetto voice. At sunset, Mignon uttered a 
strangely melancholy cry, which she repeated 
several times. 

‘‘She has been well brought up,” thought the 
soldier. ‘‘She is saying her prayers.” This 


144 


A Passion in the Desert 


mental pleasantry, however, only occurred to 
him at the sight of the peaceful attitude his 
companion had resumed. 

‘‘Come now, my little blonde, I am going to 
let you retire first,’ said he, trusting to the 
nimbleness of his legs to get as far away as 
possible and to seek another place of shelter 
when she should be asleep. 

Impatientiy he awaited the time for flight, 
and, when it came, he ran away rapidly in the 
direction of the Nile. But he had not gone 
half a mile before he heard the panther bounding 
along behind him, giving forth that saw-like 
cry already described, which seemed even more 
fearful than the sound of her feet. 

**Ah!” he said, ‘‘she’s in love with me. She 
never met any one before, and it is most flatter- 
ing to be her first love.”’ 

At that moment, the Frenchman struck one 
of those treacherous quicksands so dangerous 
to travellers, and from which it is impossible to 
escape. Upon finding himself trapped, he 
cried out in terror, but the panther seized him 
by the collar, and, quickly leaping backward, 
she pulled him out of the sandy whirlpool as if 
by magic. 

‘‘Ah, Mignon,” cried the soldier, caressing the 
panther enthusiastically, ‘‘we will stick together 
now, come what will, and no more tricks.”’ 

From that time forth, the desert seemed in- 
habited. It held a being to which the French- 
man could speak, whose ferocity he had quelled, 


145. 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


yet not knowing the secret of its strange affection 
for him. However great his desire to remain 
awake and on his guard, sleep soon overcame 
him, and held him until morning. 

When he awoke, Mignon was gone. He 
climbed the hill, and saw her in the distance, 
bounding along in the characteristic manner of 
animals whose extremely supple vertebral 
column prevents their running in the usual 
way. ,Mignon camie up with her mouth covered 
with blood. She received the caresses of her 
companion with supreme satisfaction, betrayed 
by her deep purring. Her eyes were quite 
softened now as she turned them with even more 
gentleness than on the preceding evening to 
the Frenchman; and he spoke to her as if she 
were a domestic animal. 

‘“‘Aha, young lady, you really are a fine 
girl, aren’t you, now? Are you not ashamed 
of yourself? Have you eaten some poor Mau- 
grabin this morning? Well, never mind; they 
are only brutes like yourself. But you are not 
going to eat up the French? If you do, I shall 
not love you any more.” 

She played with him just as a puppy plays 
with its master, allowing him to roll her over, 
to beat her or pat her in turn; and she even 
solicited his attention by putting out her paw 
to him. 

Several days passed thus. The character of 
his associate permitted the Frenchman to 
admire the stiblime beauties of the desert 


146 


A Passion in the Desert 


without interruption. Here he had experienced 
hours of trouble as well as hours of rest, had 
found food and a creature to think about, and 
the variety of his impressions called forth con- 
flicting emotions. He discovered beauties, un- 
known to the world at large, in the rising and 
setting of the sun. He knew the thrill experi- 
enced at the whir produced by the wings of a 
passing bird—though such visitors were rare. 
He had watched the beauty ‘of the colours 
blending in the clouds which at rare intervals 
passed over his place of refuge. At night, he 
studied the effect of the moonlight on the sand, 
as the simoon made undulating, rapidly changing 
waves. He admired the wonderful brilliancy 
of the oriental day, yet, after witnessing the 
terrible sight of a hurricane upon those wide 
plains where the shifting sands formed dry 
mists and fatal storms, he hailed with delight the 
advent of the evening and the refreshing softness 
of the starlight. Solitude led him to open the 
storehouses of dreams. He spent whole hours 
thinking of mere nothings, or comparing his 
past mode of life with the present. He became 
very fond of the panther, as his nature demanded 
some object upon which to lavish his affection. 

Whether the influence of the rational mind 
through the effort of his will had subdued the 
savage nature of his associate, or whether she 
found plenty of victims in the desert to satisfy 
her hunger, she respected the life of the French- 
man, whose suspicions of her waned as she 


147 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


of his became tamer. He spent the greater part 
of the time sleeping, but*was obliged to keep a 
lookout, like a spider watching her web, lest he 
should allow any opportunity of deliverance 
to pass by. He utilised his shirt as a flag of 
distress, hoisting it to the top of a palm-tree 
stripped of its foliage; but he was obliged 
to stretch it by means’ of "sticks? ar siea. 
the breeze might not be sufficiently strong to 
unfurl it when a traveller should look in his 
direction. 

During the long hours when hope deserted 
him, he amused himself with the panther. He 
learned to understand the inflections of her 
voice and to interpret the significance of her 
glance. He studied the curiously designed 
spots which covered her skin and gave it the 
appearance of rippling gold. Mignon no longer 
even growled when he took the end of her tail 
in his hand to count the black and white rings 
which surrounded it, and which appeared at a 
distance like an ornament of precious stones. 
It gave him pleasure to watch the graceful 
lines of her form, the snowy whiteness of her 
belly, and the handsomely shaped head. But 
he was especially fond of following her motions 
when she was at play, ever surprised at the 
ease and youthfulness of her movements. He 
admired the supple grace with which she bounded, 
squatted, rolled, crawled along, and suddenly 
leaped as though attacking an enemy. Yet, no 
matter how great her speed or how slippery the 


148 


A Passion in the Desert 


block of granite underfoot, she would stop 
short at the call of ‘‘Mignon.”’ 

One day, a great bird was circling about in 
the sunlight overhead. When the soldier left 
his panther to examine this new guest, the 
deserted sultana voiced her displeasure in a 
low growl. 

iChew-deuce! Il.believe, she is jealous,” 
thought the Frenchman, as he saw her eyes 
become fixed and glaring. ‘‘Certainly, the 
soul of Virginia might have passed into that 
body.” 

The eagle disappeared in the ether, while the 
soldier stood admiring the crouchin~ figure of . 
the panther. How much grace and youth 
there was in every line of her body! She 
was as beautiful as a woman. The light 
yellow of her fur gradually paled on each 
side until, on the inner surface of her thighs, 
it was blended into a dull white, and the 
sunlight falling full upon her changed the 
brown rosettes to a golden hue infinitely beauti- 
ful in effect. 

The man and the panther exchanged a look 
which seemed to be one of mutual understand- 
ing. The coquette trembled with delight when 
she felt the nails of her lover scratching her 
head. Her eyes became luminous, and then 
closed. 

“IT believe she has a soul, after all,’’ said the 
soldier, studying the calmness of this queen of 
the desert, the colour of whose yellow and white 


149 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


sands she wore, whose intense heat and solitude 
she personified. 


‘““Well,’’ she told me, ‘‘I have read your plea 
in favour of animals. Those two seemed to 
understand each other so well; how did their 
friendship end?”’ 

“Like all great passions—in a misunder- 
standing. One suspects the other. One is too 
proud to ask for an explanation, and the other 
too stubborn to offer it.’ 

‘“‘And to think sometimes a mere look or 
exclamation at the proper time is sufficient. 
' But finish your story.” 

‘It is exceedingly difficult, but I will tell it 
as the old warrior told it to me, When he had 
finished the bottle of champagne, he exclaimed: 

‘““*T don’t know what I had done, but she 
turned about as if enraged, and with her sharp 
teeth scratched my thigh, very slightly to be 
sure; but I, thinking she was about to devour 
me, plunged my dagger into her throat. She | 
rolled over with a cry which froze my very 
heart. In her death-struggle, she turned her 
eyes toward me. They showed no trace of 
anger. I would have given the world at that 
moment, had it been mine, or my cross, which 
I did not yet possess, to restore her to life. I 
felt as if I had murdered a human being—a 
friend. The soldiers who had seen my flag of 
distress, and had come to my rescue, found me 
in tears. 


150 


A Passion in the Desert 


***Well,’ he continued, after a moment’s 
silence, ‘I have fought in Germany, Spain, 
Russia, and France, and have seen a great deal 
of the world, but nothing like the desert. Ah! 
that is beautiful—beyond compare!’ 

***Could you be contented there?’ 

“Oh! that doesn’t follow, young man. I 
do not always mourn the loss of my group of 
palms and my panther, but I must think of 
them at times, and‘ thinking makes me sad. 
You see, in the desert there is everything and 


. nothing.’ 


““*What do you mean?’ 
***Well,’ he answered, with an impatient 
gesture, ‘God is there—man is not.’” 


THE SNOWSTORM > 


BY 


ALEXANDER SERGEIVITCH PUSHKIN 


TowArD the end of the year 1811, a memorable 
period for us, the good Gavril Gavrilovitch R 
was living on his domain of Nenaradova. He 
was celebrated throughout the district for his 
hospitality and kind-heartedness. The neigh- 
bours were constantly visiting him: some to eat 
and drink; some to play at five copeck ‘‘ Boston” 
with his wife, Praskovia Petrovna; and some to 
look at their daughter, Maria Gavrilovna, a pale, 
slender girl of seventeen. She was considered 
a wealthy match, and many desired her for them- 
selves or for their sons. 

Maria Gavrilovna had been brought up on 
French novels, and, consequently, was in love. 
The object of her choice was a poor sublieutenant 
in the army, who was then on leave of absence 
in his village. It need scarcely be mentioned 
that the young man returned her passion with 
equal ardour, and that the parents of his beloved 
one, observing their mutual inclination, forbade 
their daughter to think of him, and received him 
worse than a discharged assessor. 

Our lovers corresponded with each other, and, 
in the little pine wood or near the old chapel, 


‘ 182 


The Snowstorm 


daily saw each other alone. There they ex- 
changed vows of eternal love, lamented their 
cruel fate, and formed various plans. Corre- 
sponding and conversing in this way, they arrived 
quite naturally at the following conclusion: 

If we cannot exist without each other, and the 
will of hard-hearted parents stands in the way of 
our happiness, why cannot we do without them? 

Needless to mention that this happy idea 
originated in the mind of the young man, and 
that it was very congenial to the romantic imagi- 
nation of Maria Gavrilovna. 

The winter came and put a stop to their meet- 
ings, but their correspondence became al] the 
more active. Vladimir Nikolaievitch in every 
letter implored her to give herself up to him, to 
get married secretly, to hide for some time, and 
then throw themselves at the feet of their par- 
ents, who would, without any doubt, be touched 
at last by the heroic constancy and unhappiness 
of the lovers, and would infallibly say to them, 
“Children, come to our arms!” 

Maria Gavrilovna hesitated for a long time, 
and several plans for a flight were rejected. At 
last, she consented: on the appointed day, she 
was not to take supper, but was to retire to her 
room under the pretext of a headache. Her maid 
was in the plot; they were both to go into the 
garden by the back stairs, and, behind the gar- 
den, they would find ready a sledge, into which 
they were to get, and then drive straight to the 
church of Jadrino, a village about five versts from 


153 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Nenaradova, where Vladimir would be waiting 
for them. 

On the eve of the decisive day, Maria Gavri- 
lovna did not sleep the whole night; she packed 
and tied up her linen and other articles of apparel, 
wrote a long letter to a sentimental young lady, 
a friend of hers, and another to her parents. She 
took leave of them in the most touching terms, 
urged the invincible strength of passion as an 
excuse for the step she was taking, and wound up 
with the assurance that she should consider it the 
happiest moment of her life when she should be 
allowed to throw herself at the feet of her dear 
parents. 

After having sealed both letters with a Toula 
seal, upon which were engraved two flaming 
hearts with a suitable inscription, she threw her- 
self upon her bed just before daybreak, and dozed 
off; but, even then, she was constantly being 
awakened by terrible dreams. First, it seemed 
to her that, at the very moment when she seated 
herself in the sledge, in order to go and get mar- 
ried, her father stopped her, dragged her over the 
snow with fearful rapidity, and threw her into a 
dark, bottomless abyss, down which she fell head- 
long with an indescribable sinking of the heart. 
Then she saw Vladimir lying on the grass, pale 
and blood-stained. With his dying breath, he 
implored her in a piercing voice to make haste and 
marry him. Other wild and fantastic visions 
floated before her, one after another. At last, 
she arose, paler than usual, and with a genuine 


254 


The Snowstorm 


headache. Her father and mother observed her 
uneasiness; their tender solicitude and incessant 
inquiries, ‘‘ What is the matter with you, Masha? 
Are you ill, Masha?”’ cut her to the heart. She 
tried to reassure them and co appear cheerful; 
but in vain. 

The evening came. The thought that this 
was the last day she would pass in the bosom of 
her family weighed' upon her heart. She was 
more dead than alive. In secret she took leave 
of everybody, of all the objects that surrounded 
her. 

Supper was served; her heart began to beat 
violently. In a trembling voice, she declared 
that she did not want any supper, and then took 
leave of her father and mother. They kissed 
her and blessed heras usual, and she could hardly 
restrain herself from weeping. 

On reaching her own room, she threw herself 
into a chair and burst into tears. Her maid 
urged her to be calm and to take courage. Every- 
thing was ready. In half an hour, Masha would 
leave forever her parents’ house, her room, and 
her peaceful girlish life. 

Out in the courtyard, the snow was falling 
heavily; the wind howled, the shutters shook and 
rattled, and everything seemed to her to portend 
misfortune. 

Soon all was quiet in the house: every one was 
asleep. Masha wrapped herself in a shawl, put 
on a warm cloak, took her small box in her hand, 
and went down the back ‘staircase. Her maid 


155 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


were beating their breasts like miserable sinners. 
But these things did not interest me, who had 
sins of my own to account for. 

Soon I reached some who were running toward 
the fountain. You should have heard their 
groans. All recognised the comet, and I saw 
that it had doubled in size. 

The crowd stood in the dark, and wailed: 

“Tt is all over! Oh, Lord, it is all over, and 
we are lost!”’ 

And the women invoked St. Joseph, and St. 
Christopher, and St. Nicholas—in short, all the 
saints in the calendar. 

At this moment, I passed in review all the 
sins I had committed since coming to years of 
discretion, and I felt horrified at myself. I 
grew cold under my tongue, thinking that we 
were all going to be burned up, and, as the old 
beggar Balthazar was standing near me, leaning 
on his crutch, I embraced him, saying, 

“Balthazar, when you rest in Abraham’s 
bosom, you will take pity on me, won’t you?”’ 

Then he replied, sobbing: 

““T am a great sinner, Monsieur Christian. 
These thirty years I have deceived the com- 
munity from my love of idleness; for I am not 
nearly so lame as I seem.”’ 

‘‘And I, Balthazar,’ lamented I, ‘‘I am the 
greatest sinner in Hunebourg!”’ 

We wept on each other’s necks. 

You see, that is how people will be at the 
judgment; kings with boot-blacks, good citizens 

156 


The Snowstorm 


captain of police, a lad of sixteen years of age, 
who had recently entered the lancers. They not 
only accepted Vladimir’s proposal, but even 
vowed that they were ready to sacrifice their 
lives for him. Vladimir embraced them with 
rapture, and returned home to get everything 
ready. 

It had been dark for some time. He des- 
patched his faithful Tereshka to Nenaradova with 
his sledge and with detailed instructions, and 
ordered for himself the small sledge. with one 
horse, and set out alone, without any coachman, 
for Jadrino, where Maria Gavrilovna ought to 
arrive in about a couple of hours. He knew the 
road ‘well, and the journey would only occupy 
about twenty minutes altogether. 

But scarcely had Vladimir issued from the 
paddock into the open field, when the wind rose, 
and such a snowstorm came on that he could see 

nothing. In one minute the road was com- 
pletely hidden; all surrounding objects disap- 
peared in a thick yellow fog, through which fell 
the white flakes of snow; earth and sky became 
confounded. Vladimir found himsclf in the mid- 
dle of the field, and tried in vain to find the road 
again. His horse went on at random, and at 
every moment kept either stepping into a snow- 
drift or stumbling into a hole, so that the sledge 
was constantly being overturned. Vladimir 
endeavoured not to lose the right direction. But 
it seemed to him that more than half an hour had 
already passed, and he had not yet reached the 


tD7 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Jadrino wood. Another ten minutes elapsed— 
still no wood was to be seen. Vladimir drove 
across a field intersected by deep ditches. The 
snowstorm did not abate; the sky did not 
become any clearer. The horse began to grow 
tired, and the perspiration rolled from him in 
great drops, in spite of the fact that he was con- 
stantly being half-buried in the snow. 

At last, Vladimir perceived that he was going 
in the wrong direction. He stopped, began to 
think, to recollect, and compare, and he felt con- 
vinced that he ought to have turned to the right. 
He turned to the right now. His horse could 
scarcely move forward. He had now been on 
the road for more than an hour. Jadrino could 
not be far off. But on and on he went, and still 
no end'to the field—nothing but snowdrifts and 
ditches. The sledge was constantly being over- 
turned, and as constantly being set right again. 
The time was passing: Vladimir began to grow 
seriously uneasy. 

At last, something dark appeared in the dis- 
tance. Vladimir directed his course toward it. 
On drawing near, he perceived that it was a 
wood. 

‘“Thank Heaven!” he thought, ‘‘I am not far 
off now.” 

He drove along by the edge of the wood, hoping 
by-and-by to fall upon the well-known road or to 
pass round the wood: Jadrino was situated just 
behind it. He soon found the road, and plunged 
into the darkness of the wood, now denuded of 


158 


The Snowstorm 


leaves by the winter. The wind could not rage 
here; the road was smooth; the horse recovered 
courage, and Vladimir felt reassured. 

But he drove on and on, and Jadrino was not 
to be seen; there was no end tothe wood. Vladi- 
mir discovered with horror that he had entered 
an unknown forest. Despair took possession of 
him. He whipped the horse; the poor animal 
broke into a trot, but it soon slackened its 
pace, and in about a quarter of an hour it 
was scarcely able to drag one leg after the other, 
in spite of all the exertions of the unfortunate 
Vladimir. 

Gradually the trees began to’ get sparser, and 
Viadimir emerged from the forest; but Jadrino 
was not to be seen. It must now have been about 
midnight. Tears gushed from his eyes; he drove 
on at random. Meanwhile, the storm had sub- 
sided, the clouds dispersed, and before him lay a 
~ level plain covered with a white, undulating car- 
pet. The night was tolerably clear. He saw, 
not far off, a little village, consisting of four or 
five houses. Vladimir drove towardit. At the first 
cottage, he jumped out of the sledge, ran to the 
window, and began to knock. After a few min- 
utes the wooden shutter was raised and an old 
man thrust out his grey beard. 

‘“What do you want?”’ 

’ “Ts Jadrino far from here?”’ 

‘Is Jadrino far from here?”’ 

* Yesyeves!));Is.tsfar?’’ 

‘“‘Not far; about ten versts.”’ 


159 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


At this reply, Vladimir grasped his hair, and: 
stood motionless like a man condemned to death. 

‘Where do you come from?”’ continued the old. 
man. 

Vladimir had not the courage to answer the 
question. 

‘“‘Listen, old man,” said he; ‘‘can you procure 
me horses to take me to Jadrino?”’ 

‘‘How should we have such things as horses?’’ 
replied the peasant. 

‘‘Can I obtain a guide? I will pay him what- 
ever he pleases.” 

‘*Wait,’’ said the old man, closing the shutter; 
“‘T will send my son out to you; he will guide 
yous wy} 

<¢ Niadimir waited. But a minute had scarcely 
* Alapsed when he began knocking again. The 
shutter was raised, and the beard again appeared. 

‘“What do you want?”’ 

‘“What about your son?”’ 

‘“‘He’ll be out presently; he is putting on his 
boots. Are you cold? Comein and warm your- 
Sel’ . 

‘“‘Thank you; send your son out quickly.” 

The door creaked: a lad came out with a cudgel 
and went on in front, at one time pointing out the 
road, at another searching for it man the 
drifted snow. 

‘“‘What is the time?” Vladimir ween him. 

“It will soon be daylight,’ replied the young 
peasant. Vladimir spoke not another word. 

The cocks were crowing and it was already 


a 


160 


The Snowstorm 


light when they reached Jadrino. The church 
was closed. Vladimir paid the guide, and drove 
into the priest’s courtyard. His sledge was not 
there. What news awaited him! 

But let us return to the worthy proprietors of 
Nenaradova, and see what is happening there. 

Nothing. 

The old people awoke, and went into the 
parlour, Gavril Gavrilovitch in a night-cap and 
flannel doublet, Praskovia Petrovna in a wadded 
dressing-gown. The tea-urn was brought in, 
and Gavril Gavrilovitch sent a servant to ask 
Maria Gavrilovna how she was and how she had 
passed the night. The servant returned, saying 
that the young lady had not slept very well, but 
that she felt better now, and that she would come 
down presently into the parlour. And, indeed, 
the door opened, and Maria Gavrilovna entered 
the room, and wished her father and mother 
good morning. 

‘“‘How is your head, Masha?” asked Gavril 
‘Gavrilovitch. 

““Better, papa,’’ replied Masha. 

“Very likely you inhaled the fumes from the 
‘charcoal yesterday,’ said Praskovia Petrovna. 

“Very likely, mamma,” replied Masha. 

The day passed happily enough, but in the 
night Masha was taken ill. A doctor was sent 
for from the town. He arrived in the evening, 
and found the sick girl delirious. A violent fever 
ensued, and for two weeks the poor patient 
hovered on the brink of the grave. 


161 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


Nobody in the house knew anything about her 
flight. The letters written by her the evening 
before had been burnt; and her maid, dreading 
the wrath of her master, had not whispered a 
word about it to anybody. . The priest, the 
retired cornet, the moustached surveyor, and the 
little lancer were discreet, and not without reason. 
Tereshka, the coachman, never uttered one word 
too much about it, even when he was drunk. 
Thus the secret was kept by more than half-a- 
dozen conspirators. 

But Maria Gavrilovna herself divulged her 
secret during her delirious ravings. But her 
words were so disconnected that her mother, who 
never left her bedside, could understand from 
them only that her daughter was deeply in love 
with Vladimir Nikolaievitch, and that, probably, 
love was the cause of her illness. She consulted 
her husband and some of her neighbours, and at 
last it was unanimously decided that such was 
evidently Maria Gavrilovna’s fate, that a woman 
cannot ride away from the man who is destined 
to be her husband, that poverty is not a crime, 
that one does not marry wealth, but a man, etc. 
Moral proverbs are wonderfully useful in those 
cases where we can invent little in our own justi- 
fication. 

In the meantime, the young lady began to 
recover. Vladimir had not been seen for a long 
time in the house of Gavril Gavrilovitch. He 
was afraid of the usual reception. It was re- 
solved to send and announce to him an unex- 


162 


‘ 


The Snowstorm 


pected piece of good news: the consent of Maria’s 
parents to his marriage with their daughter. 
But what was the astonishment of the proprietor 
of Nenaradova, when, in reply to their invitation, 
they received from him a half-insane letter. He 
informed them that he would never set foot in 
their house again, and begged them to forget an 
unhappy creature whose only hope was in death. 
A few days afterward they heard that Vladimir 
had joined the army again. This wasin the year 
1812. é 

For a long time, they did not dare to announce 

this to Masha, who was now convalescent. She 
never mentioned the name of Vladimir. Some 
months afterward, finding his name in the list of 
those who had distinguished themselves and been 
severely wounded at Borodino, she fainted away, 
and it was feared that she would have another 
attack of fever. But, Heaven be thanked! the 
fainting fit had no serious consequences. 
-. Another misfortune fell upon her: Gavril 
Gavrilovitch died, leaving her the heiress to all 
his property. But the inheritance did not con- 
sole her; she shared sincerely the grief of poor 
Praskovia Petrovna, vowing that she would never 
leave her. They both quitted Nenaradova, the 
scene of so many sad recollections, and went to 
live on another estate. 

Suitors crowded round the young and wealthy 
heiress, but she gave not the slightest hope to any 
of them. Her mother sometimes exhorted her 
to make a choice; but Maria Gavrilovna sheok 


163 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


her head, and became pensive. Vladimir no 
longer existed: he had died in Moscow on the eve 
of the entry of the French. His memory seemed 
to be held sacred by Masha; at least, she treas- 
ured up everything that could remind her of him 
—books that he had once read, his drawings, his 
notes and verses of poetry that he had cop‘ed out 
for her. The neighbours, hearing of all this, were 
astonished at her constancy, and awaited with 
curiosity the hero who should at last triumph 
over the melancholy fidelity of this virgin 
Artemisia. 

Meanwhile, the war had ended gloriously. 
Our regiments returned from abroad, and the 
people went out to meet them. The bands 


played the conquering song, ‘‘Vive Henri- 
Quatre,’ Tyrolese waltzes, and airs from ** Jo- 
conde.’ Officers, who had set cut for the war 


almost mere lads, returned grown men, with 
martial air, and breasts decorated with crosses. 
The soldiers chatted gayly among themselves, 
constantly mingling French and German words 
in their speech. Time never to be forgotten! 
Time of glory and enthusiasm! How throbbed 
the Russian heart at the word ‘‘Fatherland!”’ 
How sweet were the tears of meeting! With 
what unanimity did we commingle feelings of 
national pride with love for the Czar! And for 
him—what a moment! 

The women, the Russian women, were then 
incomparable. Their usual coldness disappeared. 
Their enthusiasm was truly intoxicating, 


164 


The Cueeeeort 


when, welcoming the conquerors, they cried 
etiutranls 

What officer of that time does not confess that, 
to the Russian women, he was indebted for his 
best and most precious reward? 

At this brilliant period, Maria Gavrilovna was 
living with her mother in the province of 
and did not see how both capitals celebrated the 
return of the troops. But, in the districts and 
villages, the general enthusiasm was, if possible, 
even still greater. The appearance of an officer 
in those places was for him a veritable triumph, 
and the lover in a plain coat felt very ill at ease 
in his vicinity. 

We have already said that, in spite of her cold- 
ness, Maria Gavrilovna was, as before, surrounded 
by suitors. But al] had to retire into the back- 
ground when the wounded Colonel Bourmin of 
the hussars, with the order of St. George in his 
button-hole, and with an ‘‘interesting pallor,” 
as the young ladies of the neighbourhood ob- 
served, appeared at the castle. He was about 
twenty-six years of age. He had obtained leave 
of absence to visit his estate, which was con- 
tiguous to that of Maria Gavrilovna. Maria 
bestowed special attention upon him. In his 
presence, her habitual pensiveness disappeared. 
It cannot be said that she coquetted with him, 
but a poet, observing her behaviour, would have 
said: 

‘Se amor non e, che dunque ?”’ 

Bourmin was indeed a very charming young 


165 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


man. He possessed that spirit which is emi- 
nently pleasing to women: a spirit of decorum 
and observation, without any pretensions, and 
yet not without a slight tendency toward careless 
satire. His behaviour toward Maria Gavrilovna 
was simple and frank, but whatever she said or 
did, his soul and eyes followed her. He seemed 
to be of a quiet and modest disposition, though 
report said that he had once been a terrible rake 
but this did not injure him in the opinion of 
Maria Gavrilovna, who—like all young ladies in 
general—excused with pleasure follies that gave 
indication of boldness and ardour of tempera- 
ment. : 
But more than everything else—more than his 
tenderness, more than his agreeable conversation, 
more than his interesting pallor, more than his 
arm in a sling—the silence of the young hussar 
excited her curiosity and imagination. She could 
not but confess that he pleased her very much; 
probably he, too, with his perception and experi- 
ence, had already observed that she made a dis- 
tinction between him’and others; how was it then 
that she had not yet seen him at her feet or heard 
his declaration? What restrained him? Was it 
timidity, inseparable from true love, or pride, or 
the coquetry of a crafty wooer? It was an 
enigma to her. After long reflection, she came 
to the conclusion that timidity alone was the 
cause of it, and she resolved to encourage him by 
greater attention and, if circumstances should 
render it necessary, even by an exhibition of 


166 


The Snowstorm 


tenderness. She prepared a most unexpected 
dénouement, and waited with impatience for the 
moment of the romantic explanation A secret 
of whatever nature it may be always presses 
heavily upon the female heart. Her stratagem 
had the desired success; at least, Bourmin fell 
into such a reverie, and his black eyes rested with 
such fire upon her, that the decisive moment 
seemed close at hand. The neighbours spoke 
about the marriage as if it were a matter already 
decided upon, and good Praskovia Petrovna 
rejoiced that her daughter had at last found a 
lover worthy of her. 

On one occasion, the old lady was sitting alone 
in the parlour, amusing herself with a pack of 
cards, when Bourmin entered the room, and 
immediately inquired for Maria Gavrilovna. 

‘She is in the garden,’’ replied the old lady; 
‘*go out to her, and I will wait here for you.” 

Bourmin went, and the old lady made the sign 
of the cross and thought, ‘‘ Perhaps the business 
will be settled to-day!” 

Bourmin found Maria Gavrilovna near the 
pond, under a willow tree, with a book in her 
hands, and in white dress—a veritable heroine 
of romance. After the first few questions and 
observations, Maria Gavrilovna purposely al- 
lowed the conversation to drop, thereby increas- 
ing their mutual embarrassment, from which 
there was no possible way of escape except only 
by a sudden and decisive declaration. 

And this is what happened: Bourmin, feeling 


TAs 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


the difficulty of his position, declared that he had 
long sought for an opportunity to open his heart 
to her, and requested a moment’s attention. 
Maria Gavrilovna closed her book and cast 
down her eyes, as a sign of compliance with his 
request. 

“‘T love you,” said Bourmin : ‘‘I love you 


passionately.” 
Maria Gavrilovna blushed, and lowered her 
head still more. ‘‘I have acted imprudently in 


accustoming myself to the sweet pleasure of 
seeing and hearing you daily,’—Maria Gavrilovna 
recalled to mind the first letter of St. Preux— 
*‘but it is now too late to resist my fate; the 
remembrance of you, your dear incomparable 
{mage, will henceforth be the torment and the 
consolation of my life, but there still remains a 
grave duty for me to perform—to reveal to you 
a terrible secret which will place between us an 
insurmountable barrier.”’ - 

‘“‘That barrier has always existed,’ inter- 
rupted Maria Gavrilovna hastily: ‘‘I could never 
be your wife.” . 

“‘T know,” replied he calmly, ‘“‘I shite that 
you once loved, but death and three years of 
mourning Dear, kind Maria Gavrilovna, 
do not try to deprive me of my last consolation: 
the thought that you mere have consented to 
make me happy if 

‘‘Don’t speak, for Heaven’s sake, don’t speak. 
You torture me.”’ 

“Yes, I know, I feel that you would have been 


168 


The Snowstorm 


mine, but—I am the most miserable creature 
under the sun—I am already married!”’ 

Maria Gavrilovna looked at him in astonish- 
ment. 

*‘T am already married,” continued Bourmin; 
‘‘IT have been married four years, but I do not 
know who is my wife, or where she is, or whether 
I shall ever see her again!” 

‘What do you say?” exclaimed Maria Gavri- 
lovna. ‘‘How very strange! Continue: I will 
relate to you afterward But continue, I 
beg of you.” 

“At the beginning of the year 1812,” said 
Bourmin, ‘‘I was hastening to Vilna, where my 
regiment was stationed. Arriving late one eve- 
ning at one of the post-stations, I ordered the 
horses to be got ready as quickly as possible, 
when suddenly a terrible snowstorm came on, 
and the postmaster and drivers advised me to 
wait till it had passed over. I followed their 
advice, but an unaccountable uneasiness took 
possession of me: it seemed as if some one were 
pushing me forward. Meanwhile, the snow- 
storm did not subside; I’could endure it no 
longer, and again ordering out the horses, I 
started off in the midst of the storm. The driver 
conceived the idea of following the course of the 
Tiver, which would shorten our journey by three 
versts. The banks were covered with snow: the 
driver drove past the place where we should 
‘have come out upon the road, and so we found 
ourselves in an unknown part of the country. 


169 


Masterpieces of Fiction 


The storm did not cease; I saw a light in the dis- 
tance, and I ordered the driver to proceed toward 
it. We reached a village; in the wooden church, 
there was a light. The church was apen. Out- 
side the railings stood several siedges, and people 
were passing in and out through the porch. 

‘“*This way! this way!’ cried several voices. 

‘I ordered the driver to proceed. 

““In the name of Heaven, where have you 
been loitering?’ said somebody to me. ‘The | 
bride has fainted away; the pope does not know 
what to do, and we were just getting ready to go 
back. Get out as quickly as you can.’ 

‘“‘T got out of the sledge without saying a word, 
and went into the church, which was feebly lit up 
by two or three tapers. A young girl was sitting 
on a bench in a dark corner of the church; an- 
other girl was rubbing her temples. 

‘“*“Thank God!’ said the latter, ‘you have come 
at last. You have almost killed the young lady.’ 

‘‘The old priest advanced toward me, and said, 

***Do you wish me to begin?’ : 

“Begin, begin, father,’ replied I, absently. 

‘“The young girl was raised up. She seemed 
to me not at all bad-looking. Impelled by an 
incomprehensible, unpardonable levity, I placed 
myself by her side in front of the pulpit; the 
priest hurried on; three men and a chambermaid 
supported the bride, and occupied themselves 
only with her. We were married. 

‘“ Kiss each other!’ said the witness to us. 

“‘My wife turned her pale face toward me. I! 


179° 


The Snowstorm 


was about to kiss her, when she exclaimed: ‘Oh! 
it is not he! it is not he!’ and fell senseless. 

‘“‘The witnesses gazed at meinalarm. I turned 
round, and left the church without the least hin- 
drance, flung myself into the kzbitka, and cried, 
‘Drive off!’ ”’ | 

‘““My God!” exclaimed Maria Gavrilovna. 
*‘And you do not know what became of your poor 
wife ?”’ 

“T do not know,” replied Bourmin; ‘‘neither 
do I know the name of the village where I was 
married, nor the post-station where I set out 
from. At that time; I attached so little impor- 
tance to my wicked prank that, on leaving the 
church, I fell asleep, and did not awake till the 
next morning, after reaching the third station. 
The servant who was then with me died during 
the campaign, so that I have no hope of ever 
discovering the woman upon whom I played such 
a cruel joke, and who is now so cruelly avenged.”’ 

““My God! my God!”’ cried Maria Gavrilovna, 
seizing him by the hand: ‘‘then it was you! 
And you do not recognise me?” 

Bourmin turned pale—and threw himself at 
her feet. 


eB 


COUNTRY LIFE PRESS 
GARDEN CITY, N.Y. 


i 
iy 


ts SAGs Vite UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
eee §—808.3M11F C001 v.5-6 
cist See Fiction. 


on : es | | | | | | | ) | | | !| | I | | | | 


